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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24858931">With Matches</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dino_Cattivo/pseuds/Dino_Cattivo'>Dino_Cattivo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Batman existst, Case Fic, Clark Whump, Flirting, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Investigations, M/M, No Superman, Secret Identity, Undercover, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:09:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>35,272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24858931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dino_Cattivo/pseuds/Dino_Cattivo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark is investigating a story in Gotham, where he meets the criminal Matches Malone. Despite their differences, Clark finds himself drawn to the other man but things can go terribly wrong when mingling with the criminal underworld.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Avidreaders Batman completed faves, Superbat Reverse Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Harrison Morrigan's case</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It was so much fun to praticipate in this bang. <a href="https://twitter.com/Bonanza_Nuts/status/1275376168724623360">Bones art</a> was so gorgeous and really inspiured me to write a way longer story then planed. I really love the colors and details and I'm so glad I got to write for it. Thank you very much Bones.</p>
<p>Another big thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8">catty</a> who beta read this story. Without her this would not have been as it is now. She not only caught all the grammar and spelling errorrs but also gave me lots of advise how to improve the story. Thank you so much for taking the time and helping me with this fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“</span>
  <b>KENT!</b>
  <span> My Office. Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh no. No, no, no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic clawed its way up Clark’s chest the moment the angry voice echoed through the whole office, making the heads of his coworkers snap up or duck to not become another target of their chief anger. Because no one in the Daily Planet wanted to be in Perry White’s bad graces, at least not if they wanted to keep their job. Except for Lois, who managed to get away with making the man cry tears of rage and was still allowed to come back after both had an hour to cool off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark stumbled to his feet as quickly as possible; he didn’t want to to provoke even more fury by keeping Mr. White waiting. In his haste, he nearly toppled over his chair, and for a moment, it balanced dangerously on just two of its five wheels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lurched around, his elbow colliding painfully with the edge of the desk. He suppressed a grunt before he made a grab for the back of the seat. He missed on his first try, and he panicked before his other hand managed to get a grip so he could steady the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His relieved sigh was so loud it must have been audible for all the people at the adjacent desks, now that the whole room had fallen silent to watch the spectacle he had made of himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This silence was shattered by a terrifying cracking sound right behind him, and his shoulders slumped in defeat, already imagining the mess that must await him when he turned around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark just closed his eyes, blocking everything out—just for a second. He would open them in a moment, turn around, assess the damage, and go to Mr. White’s office. He just needed a small break. But it was fine. He was fine. Totally fine. He could do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced back to the broken shards of his favourite mug and the remnants of his coffee soaking the light carpet. Clark suddenly felt overwhelmed and just wanted to go home and curl up in bed. And perhaps cry a bit. Crying sounded like something he really wanted to do right now. Not that that really was an option. Not if he wanted to still have a job tomorrow morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Should he try to salvage the carpet so that the stain wouldn’t be that visible or try to appease his boss and risk another rant later when the man saw the damage?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Warm, comforting fingers squeezed his shoulders, and he leaned into them, swaying closer to the person. He turned around from the mishap he had made to meet Jimmy Olsen’s sympathetic gaze and tried to smile at his friend to show his gratitude for the support. It looked a bit too weak to be convincing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go see what the chief wants. I will clean this up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark swallowed and thanked whatever gods above for being blessed with such a great and loyal friend. He didn’t know how he would survive his workday without Jimmy’s and Lois’ support. At least not with how bad the past weeks had treated him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Jimmy. You are the best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hurried to the main office, running into a courier with arms full of documents on the way. Pages and pages rained to the floor around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh God. I-I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damnit. Watch where you are going!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quickly leaned down, shuffled the papers in a messy stack, picked them up, and shoved them back into the arms of the cursing man. He then managed to make his way to the door of Mr. White’s office without further incident. His knock was soft, as if he wished it wouldn’t be heard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which was stupid because that would not get him out of this situation, and he would just have to knock again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice on the other side was clipped and to the point. That didn’t bode well with Clark, but he couldn’t turn back now, so he took a deep breath and went in, standing in front of Mr. White’s desk unsure of what to do. When the other man just stared at him, he sat down in the chair, which he knew was uncomfortable on purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kent, I looked through my desk to find the article I requested from you about the opening of the new theatre. Do you know what I found?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark knew exactly what he found. Or rather didn’t find. He swallowed hard, not able to get a word out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing! Nothing about the hard work the actors put into the first play or the architectural feat accomplished by building it in the first place. Just a sob story about some women being cheated out of her money because of her own stupidity and loving the wrong man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The police won’t listen to her. This is her only chance to be heard. She doesn’t care about the money, she just wants to make sure no one else has to go through the same thing she had to. She needs help, Mr. White.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that really what you think, Kent?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. White scrutinized him closely before sighing when he concluded that, yes, Clark really thought that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I can tell you, it is always about the money and if it isn’t, then it is about attention or fame. What do you think will happen if I run this, hmm? I will tell you. People from around the city will be sorry for her, thank you for your heartbreaking writing and will offer help. She will be swarmed with people all out to make her life better, and if she plays her cards right, do you know what she gets? Fame and money. So don’t tell me what to do and how to run MY PAPER!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was it. After toeing the line for so long, Clark had finally overstepped and made Mr. White lose it. And hearing it this way, he could understand the man; it sounded logical, and he didn’t get why he hadn’t thought about this before. How he had fallen so easily for the story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But at the time, when he got the call from the sobbing woman who’d had nowhere to turn to other than the press with her only concern being to protect people from getting dragged into a similar situation, he had just wanted to help. He didn’t even think she could be using him for her own gain. It was just nothing Clark would ever do, so the thought had never crossed his mind. But maybe Lois had been right when she had told him all the time that he was too soft, and if he didn’t get his priorities straight and harden up a little, people would walk right over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I actually have it right here,” he said in a soft voice, meaning every word. He hadn’t meant to cause trouble by writing this story and pushing the other back a bit. It's just that the woman's plight had seemed so much more urgent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, now that every other newspaper has already covered the theatre story there is no real selling point anymore, so I don’t want to see you right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there it was. Not that Clark had expected differently. He knew he hadn’t really managed to pull his weight the last couple of weeks, and Mr. White was not a man who managed his paper on forgiveness and charity. But he was gracious enough to let a lot slide till this point, from missed deadlines to weak articles and opinion pieces that accidentally offended advertisers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there were just so many second chances Clark could get, and he knew he had gotten more than others would have in his place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worst thing about it was that he couldn’t even say what had him off his game. There had been nothing significant that would explain what was wrong with him in the past few weeks. Just small things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mom was fine, if a bit stressed and struggling to make ends meet, but they had managed for years by Clark sending parts of his salary, and the costs of running the farm hadn’t gone up. Another reason why he would need a new job fast. Then there was the construction site next door that kept him up from time to time whenever he tried to catch up on sleep during the day; he had lost his favourite pen last Wednesday, and the water pressure in his flat was going down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it was not the worst he had ever had, and none of it justified his bad performance. And without knowing the cause, he couldn’t fix it, couldn’t make promises to behave better in the future. So maybe being let go was the best option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go to Gotham. I want a story about the Morrigan family. For those of us who are too busy wasting their time on sob stories, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>apparently</span>
  </em>
  <span> lost all their money and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>seemingly</span>
  </em>
  <span> disappeared. Maybe then you can tell when something is a real tragedy or just a clever scheme to go into hiding without spending time in jail for fraud. You have one week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark just stared at Mr. White for a few moments, slowly blinking at him with no comprehension in his gaze. He had heard the words loud and clear and knew what they meant, but that didn’t mean he knew what they </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no logical reason for him to be given another chance. And when it dawned on him just what had been said, he opened his mouth to thank the man and reassure him he would give it his best shot, but then he just closed it and blinked again. And when he finally managed to get actual words out instead of confused sounds, he had just one question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you, Kent, are a total pain in my ass. Now get out of my office. You have a train to catch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark was still a bit dazed as he sat on said train on his way to Gotham, home of the Batman, one of the urban legends Clark had written a story about before his writing mojo had turned sour. The last hour had been a rush of running home, hastily grabbing his suitcase and more running to catch the next train to Gotham. Now as he sat here and looked out of the window, he realized it was the first time that he really had the chance to think about what had happened. He still couldn’t believe he had gotten another assignment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most people would call it bullshit, given that the story wasn’t fresh new any more and the police didn’t find anything and had given up at this point. For most people, it was an easy case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harrison Morrigan was a self-made man who’d gotten rich through investments in the property development business. But his last investment had turned out to be nothing but smoke and mirrors. He’d promised the interested parties the world, but a flawed design, substandard building materials, and a botched job by the contractors had made the building’s structure basically worthless. The project just kept on losing money, driving Harrison into bankruptcy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the assets had started to run dry and the investors had come looking for the person responsible, the whole Morrigan family just vanished into thin air, leaving no trace. And there were a lot of people looking for them, given how much money he had lost them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The discrepancy found in the finance report during the investigation led many people to believe that Harrison had realized he was in way over his head, so he’d stolen the cash to buy himself and his family a life far away from everything. It appeared to be an open-and-shut case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it didn’t add up for Clark. It was mostly a gut feeling, but small, seemingly insignificant details he couldn’t really explain stood out to him. Like why they’d left their dog behind or why the housekeeper had been fired days before the family had vanished. Wouldn’t it be better to keep up appearances?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever it was that had Clark so stumped, he would put all his years of experience from working as investigative reporter into the task of finding out as much as he could. And then he would write an article worthy of being printed by the Daily Planet to resolve all of Mr. White’s lingering doubts about him and prove it was the right decision to let him keep his job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had until the end of the week, which for Mr. White meant till 6 o’clock on Sunday, so it could be checked over for the Monday edition. Today was Monday afternoon, which meant he still had time to get this done. The first task after dropping off his luggage in a dingy hotel room—the budget for this article was small—was to find out where to start, and thankfully Clark still had some contacts in Gotham, from his time when he had unsuccessfully tried to solve the mystery of Batman’s identity. But even without the big reveal, his article had been received well. How long had it been since he had been satisfied with an article like he had ben with that story?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went to the police station and smiled at the stressed-looking young lady sitting behind the front desk. She instantly relaxed and smiled back. It was nice to see that despite everything, he still had the same calming effect on people. They just recognised that he was a nice young man and acted accordingly. Like his mother had always said, be kind and receive kindness in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How can I help you, sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, my name is Clark Kent. I was looking for Detective Trey Hartley. I called about an hour ago. He is expecting me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded slowly while looking through her papers; she lightened up when she found what she was looking for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have you right here, Mr. Kent. Just through that door and at the end of the hallway, turn left. His desk is the fourth one on, also on the left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you and have a nice day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled sweetly at him, and he felt her eyes following his butt as he followed her directions. He found the desk easily enough, but stayed back politely as the detective was still engaged in a heated phone call. He stepped out of the aisle made between the rows of desks and nodded at other officers and detectives who passed him until Hartley smacked the phone’s receiver back into its cradle and looked up at him with a frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What  brings you back to Gotham? More Bat business?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, Detective Hartley. It is nice to see you again. And no, this time it is not about Batman, but about the Morrigan case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The detective hummed, looking only mildly less grumpy, and gestured at the seat in front of him. Clark thanked him and took the offered chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know what you came all the way from Metropolis for. There is not much to say about it that hasn’t already been said.” At this, he shrugged before continuing. “But I’m getting paid by the hour, so that’s fine with me. What do you already know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just what everyone else knows, which is what the Gazette has run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing much else to say then. Vicki Vale is a scary woman. Got the whole story and everything, even talked to the housekeeper and investors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her work is really impressive. She gives Lois Lane a run for her money. What I want to know is mainly if the family had any relatives or friends that are, let’s say, a bit more on the shadier side who would lend them money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer in front hummed in thought, now looking a lot more awake than just a second ago, so this was apparently a question Miss Vale hadn’t asked. But it made sense to Clark. How could they have paid for a new life while being bankrupt? Many people thought they used the money taken from the investors, but that just seemed odd. People didn’t know for how long, but every month over the last few months like clockwork, 60,000 dollars—always the same amount—had been taken out of the business accounts, but never appeared anywhere else. Plus, the money had started disappearing long before it had become obvious that the project was failing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The investigation had not left a single stone unturned to find the secret accounts where the money was hidden, but the police had found nothing. And having so much cash just lying around at home also made no sense. The number wasn’t exactly public yet, but there was talk about it totaling over half a million. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You couldn’t really carry around this much in cash without attracting attention, and if they didn’t want to use a debit or credit card because it was more easily traceable, the amount they would have need was smaller. And if you were planning on vanishing anyway, why only take small amounts at a time and not everything at once? To Clark it sounded more like they had needed the same amount of cash at the same time every month to pay for something specific.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there hadn't been anything that matched the amount in their books, either the company's or their private accounts. They'd paid the premiums on their personal loans out of their own pocket, and any official debt by the project was underwritten by the business. This specific sum just couldn't be explained or accounted for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that they didn’t just take on a loan meant it was something they couldn’t openly admit to needing money for. There could be a lot of reasons, but given that this was Gotham and everyone knew what kind of shithole the city could be, it was more likely that they had needed the money for something less than legal. Getting permits they shouldn’t have been granted or covering something up was a one-time payment, so this was something else. The family was complete, so it hadn’t been a hostage situation. The next likely thing was that they had gotten involved with a loan shark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given Harrison’s surprising business wins and losses, it wouldn’t be unexpected for him to suddenly be tight on cash only to get it back later. But Clark found something even more curious about Harrison’s whole situation. Where did the man get the money to start his business in the first place?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t really know who would lend him money or why it is important. He clearly didn’t get any, or he would not have run,” answered the policeman with a shrug. He sipped on his coffee, making a face before swallowing, and Clark was glad he hadn’t been offered one. “Hmm, although I heard from some of the investors Mr. Morrigan was hanging out at the Silver Pearl, which is a club near Crime Alley. A bit shady but nothing we could get him for. Not important for the investigation. I wouldn't go there if I were you. They will eat a tourist like you alive there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Clark thought Hartley was wrong and that this was very important, but he couldn’t just say that to the man’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, and have a good day,” Clark said and shook the detective’s hand before leaving the station. It was already dark when he stepped outside, and he needed to hurry—he had a club to get into, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had looked up the directions to the club on his phone after leaving the police station and decided to take the detective’s advice to heart and not just run there in one of his better suits. Which just meant it wasn't as baggy as the rest of them and didn't make him look like he was a time traveller from the last century. After all there was a reason why the police mostly left it up to the Red Hood, another Gotham figure almost as mysterious as the Batman to take care of  Crime Alley—even if the club was only close and not directly in the Alley it couldn’t hurt to be careful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew that crime alley was the worst part of the city—everybody knew this. The sun always shines in Metropolis, the Gotham Knights are shitty, Crime Alley is where they rob you in broad daylight. Even the people living there didn't feel safe, and a tourist wouldn’t stand a chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he wandered back to his room and changed into something he decided would stand out less. Washed out jeans, a T-shirt with a print, and a baggy bomber jacket. Nothing that would give him a badass image, but something like that would look funny on him anyway. This way he at least stood out about fifty percent less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked himself over in the mirror one last time before going to the nearest train station. There were five stops before he had to get off and switch to a rundown public bus. Not many people wanted to get to this part of the city, and the ones who did were either so poor they couldn't be picky or shady enough they had money for a cab or car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After getting off the bus Clark was all on his own. The directions his phone provided were not really helpful, given that it had already tried to lead him into very dark alleyways twice, and he was very sure one of them had been a dead end. And he really didn’t want to end up in a place like that, trapped like a mouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even in the openness of the bigger streets, he felt threatened, and he hunched into himself every time someone passed him by. His excitement at the start of this undercover mission, which had made him feel like a detective, had vanished. Now that he was actually here and got to take in the atmosphere, he could understand why so many people feared this place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was unsettling, and he couldn’t really say why. There was dirt and rubbish and many of the buildings were in various states of decay. He and Lois had been on assignments abroad,  investigating stories in villages where the straits were much more dire. But they had just made him feel sad or angry. Right here, he could almost feel the evil lurking around him, just waiting for him to mess up so it could take its prey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really wanted nothing more than to just turn back and get out of this damn place, go back to his room and lie down and relax. And he was so very tempted to do just that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this was the only lead he had. He knew if he left now, he wouldn't have the courage to try again. If he gave up now, he would have nothing. He would have only the same information the Gotham Gazette and every other newspaper had already covered, and his article would be nothing special. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then what? Mr. White had sent him here as a last chance to prove himself. If he came back empty-handed, he would lose his job for sure. And he couldn't. He loved being a reporter for the Daily Planet. He didn't want to work for a different paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he could just finally find this damn club and get off the streets, that would make all of this so much easier. He knew it wouldn't be safe in a club either, but at least there he would have some sort of protection instead of being a sitting duck. Or a walking one. But so far, no luck, and he was too afraid to ask someone for directions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have a choice. He had to continue. He just did his best to look like he knew where he was going and not like an easy target. As he passed the entrance to a dark back street for the fourth time with his phone stubbornly pointing him inside, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and gave in to his fate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he was far enough in the alleyway that the light of the main street didn't reach him anymore, someone stepped out of the shadows. Clark flinched, stumbling to the side, pressing his back to the wall, expecting to have a knife pressed against his neck or a gun to the forehead in the next second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was his attacker waiting for him to open his eyes so they could see the fear in them? If so, he was in luck because Clark was shivering. He blinked open his wide, fearful eyes and searched for the threat. In front of him stood a very tall, broad-shouldered man who would look very intimidating if the stranger hadn't frozen midstep, looking at Clark in surprise. Not something an attacker would do. Just like an attacker wouldn't turn away from Clark and toward the bright end of the alley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Realisation flooded Clark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man had just stepped past him to get out of this shady place and, because of the bad light, it had looked like he’d appeared out of nowhere. Clark had totally overreacted and now didn't only look like an absolute idiot, but had shown this man that, if he wanted, Clark was an easy target to pick on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fantastic. Now he had doomed himself to be robbed by his own stupidity. But to Clark’s disbelief the man only snorted in amusement and shook his head before continuing on his way. Clark watched, still a bit wary and tense, as the man put his hand inside his jacket pocket, but he took out a matchbox instead of a weapon. Unable to tear his gaze away, Clark watched as the man opened the box one handed and shook out a single match in a practiced move before leaning forward and closing his lips around the small piece of wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By this time, Clark had calmed down a bit. He didn't feel like he would hyperventilate any second, and he could get a better look the stranger’s profile in the soft light of the main street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was gorgeous, even with the reflection from his glasses hiding his eyes. Something Clark hadn't expected to see in this part of the city. His cheekbones were high, his dark hair combed to the side lazily. The moustache should look hideous, but this man made it work. Especially in combination with his full lips, which held the match with ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the stranger paused and looked back, and Clark was faced with beautiful blue eyes that looked straight at him before one eyebrow rose and the corner of that mouth tilted up in a smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Like what you see?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Clark just blinked at him and barely caught himself before he nodded because, yes, he definitely liked what he saw. How could he not? This man was so handsome. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then his brain finally caught up with him, and he whirled around, mortified, feeling his face flush a bright crimson. Oh no. He didn't just check out a stranger and get caught while doing it just seconds after nearly falling on his arse because he’d been spooked. As far as bad first impressions went, this was by far the worst he’d ever made, and he truly hoped he would never have to see this man again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started walking again in big strides, just hoping he would get away fast so he wouldn't hear the stranger laughing at him. In his haste, he took two steps past a staircase leading down and only then registered the bright neon sign spelling out the club’s name. No wonder Clark hadn't been able to find it. If you didn't stand in front of the stairs, the walls on either side of them hid them completely. The man must have come up the stairs and therefore had looked like he appeared out of thin air. Clark quickly made his way down the stairs. But before he could go inside and finally start his investigation, his way was blocked, again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was it with tall men stepping in front of him today?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at the guy, noticing the too tight vest with the name of the club on the front. A bouncer. Maybe this place wasn't so shady after all, if this man made sure no unwanted customers could get inside. Then realisation hit Clark. He was one of the unwanted customers. And just to verify his suspicion, the man spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck off."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sure this is a misunderstanding I—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I said fuck off. Or do I have to make it stick?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man rose a fist and Clark swallowed hard, looking at how tight the man’s clothes were and how the buttons strained to keep his muscles contained. No, he really didn't want to fight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"T-Thats all right," Clark mumbled and stumbled back a step, wanting to create space between them. Then he turned around and ran up the steps again. Only when he was out of eyesight, hidden by the wall next to the stairs, did he relax again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Goddamn, his disguise didn't work at all. The man had taken one look at him and had decided that he was not to be let into the club. And Clark believed him if he said he would use force to ensure Clark stayed out, if necessary. And he had been so close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let out a frustrated huff, not ready to give up just yet. But how? How could he get in there? He was not getting past the man, not like this—he was sure of that much. Maybe he could get some other clothes and try to style his hair to fit in better with the rest of the people frequenting the club and try again tomorrow? Only he knew that no amount of styling would hide who he truly was. His good-natured personality and Metropolis air always shone through in the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what else could he do? He refused to return to Mr. White empty-handed, and he wouldn't be able to get the man to let him in on his own. He looked around the alley, a bit lost, until he literally laid eyes on the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man who had scared him before was still standing at the entry of the street, tinkering with a beat-up looking phone. He had come up the stairs, and he fit right in with the environment, so it was easy enough to assume he had been able to get into the club without any problems. Which meant if Clark went with him, he would also get in. This only left the big question of how he was supposed to achieve that. He couldn't just go over there and ask if the man would be willing to help him get into a club, even if he hadn't made a fool of himself before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So how does one get a man who is obviously a bit shady and maybe even a criminal to do something for you on a very, very tight budget?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark had no idea. Jobs like that were more of Lois’ standard go-tos. She had a way with words, and her personality intrigued people. She would have this man walk her down those stairs like she was a queen. To be fair, she wouldn't have been stopped in the first place, or if the man were stupid enough to try, she would have given him a tongue-lashing until he begged for forgiveness. Neither of which Clark had managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked back at the stranger, who by now was furiously typing on his phone while mumbling frustratedly under his breath. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket and turned to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Clark’s mind really had caught up with what he was doing, he was already running into the man’s back, grasping his arm, which tensed under his touch. But at this point, Clark was too desperate and already too far in to just let go when the man tried to shrug him off. Even if he ended up beaten and left for dead on a street corner, Clark would exhaust all his options first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ineedyoutogetmyinsidetheclub. Please."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasped for breath after the stream of words left his mouth, looking at the guy with pleading eyes, desperately hoping, but also getting ready to be shoved away. But the man just studied him intensely before his shoulders slumped and he let out  a sign.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And why would I do that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I-I..thats..." Well, that was a really good question. Because there was no reason for him to  do a favour for a man he didn't know outside an embarrassing encounter that had lasted maybe a minute. And Clark knew he didn't really have anything to offer. The man apparently knew that as well, given the big frown on his face. At least he wasn't punching Clark yet. Plus, he seemed rather amused with the situation now. Or at least his frustrated frown had disappeared. Well, here went nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I could help you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Help me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, Clark deserved the disbelieving and confused look he got. But he was out of his element and just trying to get through this somehow. Preferably without a fist to his face. The guy just blinked at him for a moment before understanding filled his eyes, and Clark breathed in relief, glad he’d gotten the message across. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or not, because the next second the man’s face twisted in distaste, and he yanked his arm back, putting some space between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry, sugar, I'm not really into </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> right now. Maybe tomorrow." With these words, the man looked Clark up and down, stopping at his groin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh no. Shit, no. I didn't...I would never. Not for something like this. I—" Clark spluttered, gesticulating widely with his arms and hitting the man in the chest in the progress, which only helped to make him panic more. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do that. Are you hurt? This is the worst. I'm such an idiot. Normally, I'm not like this. I don't know what’s wrong with me today."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was put out of his misery by the man grasping his shoulders and holding him in place. The displeasure gone from his face, which was now set back into lines of pure amusement but not in a condescending way, but something much softer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just breathe, darling. Organize your thoughts and tell me what you meant, okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Clark just did that. It was easy to follow the directions of the deep calm voice. "Your phone. You were frustrated with something. I could help you with whatever it is. Within reason of course."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he smirked, his gaze wandering over Clark again, taking him in completely for the first time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Clever boy. So you will help me get back the money Harrison Morrigan owns my boss? You don't look the part of a debt collector, darling."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What were the chances? But no matter how low the probability, it seemed this man was after the exact same man as Clark. And apparently, his search of the club had come up empty. Their goals aligned, and the man was depending on his help for clues—he just didn’t know it yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark had the upper hand in this situation. If he played this right, the man could do more than just get him into the club. Given how shady this investigation was going, this wouldn't be the last club he had to get into somehow, or the last lead Clark would have to chase down in one of Gotham’s seedier areas. Having some muscle at his back would make him less of a target. The only downside was that this man was a criminal, and Clark would lead him straight to Mr. Morrigan. Which meant he had to play this right, take a page out of Lois’ book and be smart about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A plan formed in his head. He could give away enough information that the man couldn't run off by himself and instead had to stay with Clark. Once they found Mr. Morrigan, Clark would call the police before the situation escalated, they still came to the . And then he would have the scoop he needed to save his career. A perfect plan. If only it worked out and he didn't mess up. Again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My name is Clark Kent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps giving the man his real name hadn’t been the best idea, but Clark was a shitty liar, and the only fake name he could come up with was Smith, so, yeah, now apparently a debt collector knew his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I work for the Daily Planet, and I'm investigating the disappearance of the Morrigan family. So just like you, I'm hoping to find the man himself. I guess you heard of his regular visits here and came here to investigate, but couldn't find anything? This is why you need me. It is my job to dig around. But to do this I need to get past the bouncer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man regarded Clark for a few more seconds with interest, clearly debating on whether he would make good on his words and if it was worth the risk of getting thrown out if something went wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark held his breath and tried to look sure of himself while under the other’s gaze, but who was he kidding? He looked just as lost as he had before. But somehow he must have convinced this man that he could do it. Or he was just that desperate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Matches Malone." Oh, come on! That name was obviously fake. Now Clark thought he should really have led with John Smith or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches held out his elbow and waited until Clark took it before leading him back down the stairs. The bouncer obviously recognised Clark and already shifted into a fighting stance, preparing to make good on his promise. Clark tensed up and stopped midway down the stairs, but a small tug on his arm got him moving again, following Matches all the way to the bottom. The man in question smiled brightly at the bouncer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't be like this, Mike. You will scare this one away. And that after all the effort it took to get this darling." He leered at Clark and patted the man, whose name was apparently Mike, on the chest as he moved past him, keeping himself in between Clark and the bouncer. He opened the door like a real gentleman, and Clark stepped through, glad he had overcome the first hurdle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inside of the establishment was much nicer than Clark had expected. From the neighbourhood, he would have assumed it to be just some shady sort of bar with rundown furniture and sticky spots on the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this was different. This place looked new, with a big stage and a live performer at the other end of the club from the door. A modern bar was on the left side, with two barkeeps mixing drinks. In the free space were comfortable-looking sofas positioned into U-shapes and bracketed in by decor to give individual groups space and privacy. Waitresses in short but tasteful uniforms were going around serving drinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark let go and went over to the bar, but got grabbed before he could get too far away from his escort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I tried that already."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Which is why I won't try."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wiggled out of the other man’s grasp and went over to the bar, sitting down on one of the chairs there, and ordered one of the expensive drinks. He made some small talk with the barkeeper, but feigned disinterest, just sipping on his drink from time to time. Not too often, though; he didn’t want to get drunk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel the eyes of his companion drilling into his back, and when he risked a short glance over his shoulder, he saw him sitting alone nursing a beer but never turning away from Clark. Well, wasn't that nice. He was the sole focus of attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches really didn't trust him to not mess up. Especially with him just sitting there enjoying his drink. What did he expect would happen? Him pouring the drink all over himself? Okay, with Clark’s behaviour, that was a fair assessment; he hadn’t exactly made the best impression. But Clark knew what he was doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pestering the bartenders wouldn't get him any answers, and they would just get suspicious, so waiting was the better option. And it only took about an hour of sitting there uncomfortably, sweating and working on his second drink, ever conscious that he was being watched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Water, please." Clark looked over as the stage singer leaned against the bar next to him. Choosing a chair at the small side of the bar and therefore closer to the stage had been a good decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your singing is really beautiful."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She startled, not expecting a customer to acknowledge the entertainment while she took a short break to rehydrate. Even less that she would get a compliment. She frowned at him, clearly judging his intentions and trying to decide if he was flirting with her. But for once, his disarming smile and friendly look came in handy because she instantly relaxed. Evidently, she had decided that, no, he wasn't a creeper who was only nice because he wanted to get in her pants, but someone who actually meant the words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you here often? It is my first time visiting this place, and I really like your song selection. It's classy but powerful. Your take on ‘This Is a Man’s Man’s Man’s World’ was especially great."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now she smiled and even sat down in the chair next to Clark while gulping down the water her colleague had given her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ever Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Sometimes Saturday, but that is mostly reserved for bigger gigs but worth checking out if you are interested in coming back at all. Don't get me wrong, but this don't seem like your type of place."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it was Clark’s turn to laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, believe me, I know. I barely got past the bouncer, but the entertainment here makes it worth it. My friend Harrison, a regular, always raved about this place, so I thought I should check it out, and so far, I'm not disappointed. Although it would be more fun if I didn't have to come here alone the first time. But he always says that my looks would be bad for his business."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I can see that. You basically scream honesty. Not that that’s a bad thing. Just, around these parts, people are a lot meaner. Especially the one your friend did business with."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, I could be mean too," Clark complained jokingly while trying to scowl. He knew it didn't look right on his face, but looking intimidating hadn’t been his intention in the first place. And just like he had hoped, she nearly toppled over laughing, and he could hear a faint amused huff from behind him where Matches sat. He tried to hold his face like that but broke out into a cheerful laugh soon afterward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are killing me. Your face is not made to look mean." She sobered up and looked at Clark intensely. "But seriously. The Hanoi Ten are not nice people, so be glad you didn't meet them. And keep away from the Vietnamese restaurant two blocks down." She patted his shoulder before getting up and making her way back in the direction of the stage again, her break obviously over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you. I will keep that in mind. Have a nice evening and a good show."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wasn't even back on stage when Clark felt another warm body moving up behind himself, caging him against the bar. He turned around to get the other to back off. But the move wasn’t that great an idea after all, as he now found himself face-to-chest with Matches. He would have really preferred to move back and get some more space between them, but his back was literally pressed against the bar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With no personal space left to maneuver in, he was forced to lean his upper body back and look up, baring his throat to the other man. He felt vulnerable under the other’s studious gaze. It made Clark nervous, and he kept silent till the other man’s eyebrows rose in question. It was really fascinating how expressive they were, and Clark found himself distracted trying to interpret the small movements. Clark was sure they could have whole conversations without the other man saying a single word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any luck, sugar?” Ah, good to see that the man could still talk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Told you I could get the information." Clark couldn't keep the triumph out of his voice. He could be at least a bit smug after managing to obtain the information they needed after everything he’d struggled with this evening and Matches’ previous failure. It made him feel like he had accomplished something and had gotten a step closer to his greater goal – a feeling he had been sorely lacking in over the past couple of weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Look who was eager for Clark to share. And Clark smiled at the other man. In this moment, Matches just reminded him a bit of Lois, and just like with Lois, he couldn’t help but tease a little, most of his tension leaving his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words were accompanied by an eyeroll from Matches because it was pretty obvious what the man wanted. But Clark just continued smiling and pretending to not catch his meaning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Matches leaned forward, close enough that Clark could feel the hot puff of breath on his cheek and a strong hand on his shoulder. And Clark was reminded that this was not Lois, his best friend who was practically his sister, whom he could joke with and poke fun at. This was a dangerous although handsome stranger. And Clark had forgotten it and had been lulled into a false sense of security by the man’s easygoing demeanor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What did you find out?" The words were low and murmured—you could call it seductive if you were one to wax poetic, but they had a sharp edge to them and made a shiver run down Clark’s spine. He knew he should turn away or get up from the chair and run from the predator in his space, but at the same time he wanted to lean in and get closer, hear more. So he stayed just where he was, undecided.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew that he had to tell Matches </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That he couldn’t play games with a man like this. He had made a deal after all, and in this part of town, there was no going back on something like that—not if he wanted to stay alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t just give in and tell him everything. If he did, Matches would be out and about in no time, following the lead Clark had been given. And then Clark would not only lose the chance to blend in and the protection that Matches offered—and in the middle of gang territory, no less—but Matches would snatch the story from Clark with ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark bit his lip nervously, his thoughts running wild, trying to find a solution while avoiding the searching eyes of Matches, who had leaned back a little to give Clark at some room to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had an idea. Probably a really stupid idea, which probably would earn him a fist to the face. But he had to try. At least if he didn’t want to just give up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t just say thanks and leave, so if he wanted any chance in getting the story before Matches, or better yet before Matches could do his business and send all involved parties running, he had to keep the man close. Which meant that he basically had to play the man, string him along, but always keep him one step behind and depending on Clark. This was the most logical solution. Clark just didn’t like it very much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You see, Clark had always been taught to be polite, friendly and honest, and he could proudly say his moral compass had a steady north. So this was something he would normally not even think about. But with how his life was going at the moment, he’d begun to think more and more that people were right when they said only the strong survived. And if he had to step into morally grey territory for his career’s survival, he just had to swallow that bitter pill and get over it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if Matches didn’t deserve it. The man had helped him after all—the promise of an exchange didn’t undo the fact that he had not only listened to Clark’s rambling, but had calmed him down. And, sure, the man was a criminal and probably not a nice person, but that didn’t mean that Clark could bring himself to despise him. Be wary, yes, that was just basic survival instinct, but he wouldn’t write Matches off as a bad guy without knowing his story. In a city like Gotham, you did whatever you had to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I found out whom Mr. Morrigan did business with and where to find them," he said softly, not wanting to make Matches any angrier than he would already be in a second, and Clark really didn’t want a broken nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bright shine in Matches’ eyes made him feel even worse for what he was about to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You see the problem is that if I tell you, you will just be gone with my story." The frown on Matches’ face was justified, and he quickly continued speaking before the other man completely lost his cool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So we could go together? Like you and me. Take a look at the place Morrigan's business partners frequented. Actually, I would feel a lot safer if we went together, and I could just quickly get my story before you do your thing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, his last sentence was indeed phrased as a question.  Because let's be realistic here—Clark was a reporter who spent most of his day sitting behind a desk or chasing behind a woman in stilettos. He had some muscles from a lifetime helping on the farm, but he was no fighter. It was rather more likely he would injure himself by hitting a wall than actually hurt someone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches, on the other hand, could stand on his own. Not only did he have the obvious muscle, but he had the confidence to match it. The way he moved was fluent and graceful. Like no matter what the world threw at him, he could deal with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If a man like Matches, a criminal and debt collector, wanted something from a man like Clark, he would get it one way or another, more painful, way. And Clark would absolutely prefer the way that involved neither blood nor broken bones, thank you very much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches frowned at him, clearly not happy with this kind of arrangement, and Clark already saw himself being dragged out of the club and being pushed against the closest wall. But Matches hesitated and sized him up, looking contemplative for a moment, as if he was debating with himself, weighing pros and cons, and Clark’s heart was racing, hoping he wasn’t searching for the softest spot to hit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's go then, darling."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark couldn't believe it. Matches was going along with his demand. He had been right. Matches might be a criminal, but at heart, he was a good guy. And it eased something in Clark to have Matches at his side when facing the people who could very well be involved in the disappearance of a whole family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches might just be a single man, but Clark somehow trusted him to be strong enough to deal with whoever came at them. He really should stop seeing so much of Lois in him, but he couldn’t help himself. And at least that explanation was easier to accept than the idea that he just trusted the guy for no apparent reason besides his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark startled when a warm hand unexpectedly landed on his lower back and steered him in the direction of the door, but he slowly relaxed when he realized how careful he was guided. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lois would have a field day with this once he was back in Metropolis and she wormed the whole story out of him. It would be all “Clark, please tell me you didn't just fall into the arms of the first criminal you could find in Gotham.” But he couldn't really help himself. Matches made him feel safe and at ease, unlike any other person he had ever met.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with Clark leading the way in the right direction, Matches never let his hand fall from Clark’s back and kept close. Which was why Clark turned rather bashful when he had to get his phone out and look up where they were going after walking the two blocks and still having no idea where the place was exactly. Matches had the courtesy to pretend to not notice and looked pointedly in the other direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he had to finally admit he was leading them in circles when they passed the same group of shady-looking men smoking in a doorway for the second time. Which was why he wasn’t surprised when Matches finally lost his patience and grabbed the phone with an annoyed huff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is an enigma to me how you even found the club with your sense of direction, sugar."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well." Clark’s face turned a beautiful scarlet, and he once again cursed how easily others could read his emotions on his face. He would really have liked it if he didn't have to reveal even more of his misshapes to Matches, not that he wanted to impress the man or anything. He just didn't want to look even more like a moron, but at this point, it had already been written on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was more like stumbling over it by accident?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"After stumbling away from me." Not a question. The laugh accompanying the statement should have made Clark furious at being made fun of, but somehow, he liked the warmth in Matches’ laughter. It was nice. And he got made fun of all the time anyway, so it wasn't anything new.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turned out, they had been close to their destination. Clark had just managed to walk past it from behind, therefore missing the bright neon sign repeatedly. Normally, his sense of direction was much better. It was just something about Crime Alley or Gotham in general that had messed up his head. Their system was confusing him, and it was like the city itself was built to turn people around. In Metropolis, he could find his way around easily enough without ever having to look something up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark eyed the restaurant warily. From the outside, it looked harmless enough, even if it was a bit run down. But many older places had their charm, and he frequented them when he went out for dinner in Metropolis. But he wasn't sure he would feel comfortable eating here, given who the main patrons of this place were.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt cold when Matches’ hand left his and the man stepped back a bit, but it would surely be better to not look too close; there were still prejudiced people, after all. Matches was intimidating, but Clark hanging on his arm would surely detract from the image. All this didn’t stop him from wishing Matches were closer to protect him. For now, he had to be satisfied with hiding behind the big shoulders of the other man and hoping he would be overlooked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stay low, don't speak. If I say run, you run, understood?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This did nothing to calm Clark’s nerves. This didn't sound like Matches planned to carefully poke around and ask questions, more like he’d be waltzing in to demand answers. And Clark desperately didn’t want to be caught in the violence sure to follow in such an event.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I-I don't think th-that’s a goo—" He didn't get to finish his sentence because Matches just stormed inside and left him behind, gasping at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What should he do? He would rather stay outside where he was safe from pissed-off gang members. But then he wouldn’t find out what was going on, and then he could just have gone home when he didn’t get in the club. And he wasn’t quite ready to give up just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuffled from foot to foot, gazing at the door and straining his hearing, but he couldn't make out much besides muffled sounds through the thick wood. So going inside it was. His decision was only reinforced by the two people in dark clothes who eyed him from the other side of the street. Going into a gang den suddenly seemed like the better option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ended up in a dimly lit hallway leading deeper into the building, and he ran through it with the heavy red carpet swallowing his footsteps. Inside now, with only a thin door between him and the main room, the noise was much more prominent. He could hear shouting and the sound of chairs being pushed back. He slowed his steps and crept closer to the door, pushing it open slowly and poking his head in. All this was in vain when the shocked gasp that escaped him alerted the man standing next to the door to his presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room was filled with five guys, all of them wearing similar clothes and looking murderous. The furniture was toppled over where they had sprung up from their chairs too quickly, and Clark could see at least two of them pointing guns at Matches and one with a knife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But so far no one was attacking, just screaming at Matches, who sat in the middle of the chaos as relaxed as one could be. With his left arm, he pressed the head of a guy kneeling in front of him to the top of the table, between the turned over dishes and cutlery, a big knife embedded very close to his eyes. Seeing that no one dared to move, he guessed that the kneeling man must be the one in charge or equally important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just wanted to back away from all the chaos when a heavy hand grasped his neck. He tried to squirm away, but the man just dug his nails in until he broke skin, and then there was suddenly a telltale click, and Clark went stiff. His wide eyes looked to the side where the man from the door held a gun to his head. Clark just stared, shocked, before fear kicked in and he started trembling. He nearly fell as he was pushed forward towards the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"OI!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flinched as the man beside him exclaimed to be heard over the chaos and angry shouting in front of them. Soon, everyone else fell silent as they watched Clark standing there with a gun pressed to his head, shivering and suppressing tears. He looked at Matches for some sort of reassurance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Matches just looked at him, first in surprise before smiling brightly. And maybe this was just what Matches had wanted. After all, Clark was just some noisy reporter who had manipulated Matches into helping him and then even pushed the boundaries of their agreement. Getting rid of Clark without getting his own hands dirty and gaining leverage on the gangsters—this was a win-win situation for Matches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with Matches, the only one in any position to help him, not lifting a finger, Clark would be found dead in some alley or dumpster if he was even found at all. Maybe he would vanish with no one knowing what happened to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, Lois wouldn't just accept that. She would search high and low for him until she found the truth. But by then, it would already be too late to help him, and he didn’t even want to imagine what it would do to his mom. She had already lost his Pa. She would be devastated if he turned up dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about his mom, he couldn't hold back the sobs anymore as he dissolved into tears. He had gotten in over his head, and now the people around him would pay the price.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches’ pure indifference about Clark’s capture seemed to confuse his capturers. At least, the fingers on his neck loosened, and the others were now looking between Clark and Matches. But it would be too much to hope they just assumed they didn't know each other and would let Clark go. In this case, he would just be a witness they would have to silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he could just stop crying for a second and breathe and think, he could try to say something in his defense. Not that he believed it would change anything, but it would be more dignified than being killed without getting a single word out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked the tears out of his eyes till his vision cleared, his eyes being drawn to Matches despite him not wanting to look at the personification of his complete inability to judge a person’s character correctly. To his surprise, Matches’ smile had faded, and the man now looked at him with worry. His previous relaxed position had stiffened somewhat, and he had half turned to completely face Clark even if he didn’t let the man on the table go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here, babe,” he reached for Clark while speaking in a soft, soothing voice which was completely out of place, but did settle something in Clark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark didn't know what to do. On one hand, he didn't want anything more than to run to Matches and hide in the comfort he brought. On the other hand, there was still a weapon pressed to his skull. In the end, the wish for hiding from all of this against Matches shoulder won out, and he decided that if he was about to die anyway, he would rather do it at least thinking he would be saved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his surprise, the gangster holding him hostage didn’t make a move to stop him, and Clark would cry in relief if his face wasn’t already streaked with tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment he was close enough, Matches grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer till Clark was pressed firmly against the other man’s shoulder, although their position was a bit awkward given that the other was still sitting and the ensuing height difference this caused. He could feel the rough tips of Matches’ thumb on his cheek as he swiped away the tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was just trying to figure out where he should put his free hand when there was a tug on the one still clutched by Matches, and before he knew what was happening, he was half sitting on, half straddling Matches’ lab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should be really embarrassed about this situation, but he couldn’t find it in him to give a single shit about it, just being glad he could feel Matches’ solid chest pressed against his own. Clark couldn’t really resist the urge and pressed in closer, leaning his head where Matches’ neck met his shoulder, breathing in the unique cologne while still being able to peek over the shoulder to keep an eye on the room. Although he was sure Matches would make sure no one snuck up on them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, darling, don't cry. Shh. It's okay. You are safe.” Warm fingers had started to play with a few strands of hair on the back of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanh over here," he said as he patted the man now struggling on the desk. Not that it did him any good, as even with Clark on his lap, Matches managed to hold the man—whose name was apparently Thanh—down without any effort, "was just telling me about their business deal with Mr. Morrigan. You see, they had this arrangement where he would pay them a fixed amount every month. You remember the money going missing from the official account, yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark nodded into Matches’ shoulder, a bit dumbfounded about what was happening and wondering if Matches really planned to just continue his interrogation like this. Why was Thanh even talking? With Matches having him by the neck and the other guys having Matches at gunpoint, it should be a stalemate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches shouldn’t have had the upper hand. Why was no one attacking them? And why had they just let Clark go instead of exchanging hostages? Not that he was complaining. He preferred it much more this way, but it just struck him as strange. In fact, he couldn't think of any good reason, except that Matches must have something else other than Thanh to keep them in check and talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He was just about to tell me what the money was for when you decided to join us, sugar."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made it sound like Clark just strolled in instead of stumbling in at gunpoint. There was a pained noise when Matches pushed the man harder into the table and closer to the knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, okay. I will talk. It's protection money."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, he couldn't pay any more, and you took care of him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? No. Death people don’t pay, smartass."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another grunt when Matches twisted some strains of Thanh’s hair painfully for his remark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So why is he missing then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ow. I don't know. NO! I really don't know. Don't. Please. I'm not lying. I really don't know. I swear. It wasn't our gang. I beg you, please. Maybe the guy after him got smart. I dunno."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And who would that be?" Matches voice was dark and gravely, and Clark could feel a shiver run down his spine. He would hate to be on the other end of Matches’ questioning. But he still couldn’t fear the man. Not with the way Matches’ fingers carefully caressed Clarks spine and drew circles on his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"E-Enrico. Enrico Inzerillo."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches strengthened his grip, pulling another whine from his victim, before pushing him away to sprawl on the floor. Clark was about to get back onto his shaky legs to give Matches enough room to get up so they could finally leave when the hand previously on his back pulled tight and the other one moved to his bum. Before he knew it, Matches stood up in a swift, controlled movement. With Clark cradled to his chest. Clark hastily hugged his arms around Matches’ shoulders, afraid of falling. Not that he should have reason to fear because Matches was carrying him around without any sign of strain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lynx will be happy to hear of your cooperation." He nodded at the gangsters with a glare that meant business and which wasn’t even deteriorated by Clark clinging to him like a koala.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark leaned closer whispering into the other’s ear. "Lynx?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Leader of the Golden Dragons. The two gangs are fighting, but the dragons are clearly winning." Matches had turned his head as well and was whispering into Clark’s ear. He was so close, his lips were almost touching Clark’s skin, and he could feel the other man’s hot breath on his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are part of a gang like that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark was a bit taken back. Logically, he knew that Matches was a criminal and not a good guy, but finding out how deep down the rabbit hole of organized crime he was made it all seem more real. Made him be less Matches who stroked away his tears and carried him and more like a hard-hearted criminal. But Matches just laughed one of his beautiful loud laughs and shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I'm not but they don't know that, so let’s keep it our little secret, alright, sweetie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Clark just stared, dumbfounded at him in the neon light of the sign outside the restaurant as he was sat back down on his own two feet, which were now a lot steadier. And then he couldn’t help himself anymore and joined Matches with a bright laugh of his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't believe they fell for this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Clark just shook his head in bemusement and a bit of disbelief at how misinformed the criminals of Gotham apparently were. To not know the faces of the people involved in a gang war seemed like a big oversight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, sugar, as sweet as our time was, I fear you will have to excuse me now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matches pressed a soft kiss to Clark’s forehead like a real gentlemen before stepping out of Clark’s personal space, smiling with satisfaction. And Clark for the first time since getting out of the restaurant managed to take his eyes off Matches and look around now that they weren't touching anymore. They were on the  street. A big street. And right over there was a bus stop. He couldn't believe Matches had walked him to a bus stop. That was basically the first-date equivalent to walking someone to their door in this part of town.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you for everything."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My pleasure, darling. Now get back to your cosy hotel room and don't come back. As much as I would love to see your pretty face again, this is no place for nice reporters from Metropolis."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with these words, Matches waved at him one last time and disappeared back into the shadows. Clark couldn't tear his eyes away till there was nothing left to see besides darkness. He felt a pang of sadness as he watched the other man go. They had only known each other for a few hours, but he already felt so close to him. Maybe it was a bodily reaction to all the adrenalin, fear and relief, to be attracted to his saviour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just feared a Google search for a strange affection for dangerous men who save you from an even more dangerous situation wouldn’t bring up too many results. Although this was Gotham, so who knew? Maybe it was a regular thing here and even had a word to describe it. He would do some searching. Just after he had slept off the adrenalin crash he could already feel creeping up on him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Investigating Enrico Inzerillo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>With a loud, annoyed huff, Clark threw his pen down, right on top of the papers sprawled all over the table in front of him. On them, he had noted the events of last night and several starts to his article, which at this point he didn't even bother to throw into the trash anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He massaged his stiff shoulders, looking at the mess he had created in the last hours with disdain. After staggering through his hotel room door, he had been too riled up to sleep, so he had thought he would put his wakefulness to good use and get everything down in writing before he forgot any details.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In theory, it had been a good idea, but he had ended up with pages of total useless information, especially in the parts regarding Matches Malone. It was like his research into the Batman all over again—who cared if there were different capes depending on the season? Surely vigilantes got cold too. He eyed the various pages he had devoted to the man and had then pushed them far off to the side until they were half hidden under the plate containing the remains of his early breakfast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But even with all the clutter, he had felt full of achievement for finding something not even Vicki Vale was aware of and had promptly come up with various ways to incorporate it into his article. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, with the sun high in the sky and everything hurting, he had to admit that all of it was bullshit. What did he really have? That Mr. Morrigan paid money to one of Gotham’s gangs because he feared an influential man. That was all. Only hearsay and not the slightest ounce of proof. Mr. White would have his head if he dared to bring something like this to him. Better yet, he could just stay here and don't even bother to pay for the train ticket back to Metropolis.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he wanted a good, weighty article, he would have to find out more, get proof or at least something more solid. Which in turn meant going back into the lion’s den. And this time there wouldn't be a man with a shady background to protect him, and it’s not like he could rely on a Bat conveniently passing by to save the night. If he wandered in, he would do so alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was an article worth risking his life? The rational, sane answer would be no. Especially with how afraid he had been last night when the gun had been pressed to his head and how helpless he’d felt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there was a part of his brain which apparently had gone completely and utterly mad since he’d arrived in Gotham, which thought rationality was overrated and pushed him to throw himself back into the fray. It left him wanting to feel the rush of adrenalin in his veins, yearning for the excitement of the search, and even longing for the man standing at his side again.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Plus, there was this nagging curiosity. Now that he knew that the Morrigans didn't just pack their things and go into hiding, he wanted to know what had really happened to them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And even if he could tune out the insane longing for excitement, he couldn’t dismiss the feeling that he owed something to the Morrigans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Last night, he had known Lois wouldn't rest until she found out what had happened to him, and this had brought him some sort of peace when he was facing death. Why shouldn't the Morrigans have the same courtesy? Didn't they deserve to have people know what had happened to them? And wasn't it Clark’s job as reporter to find out just what that was? After all, what good was he if he only wrote fluff pieces and ran away the moment things became hard? Because the truth was never easy, and if he didn't find it, then who would? No one except him suspected foul play. If he left now, no one would pick up the investigation after he was gone. No one cared enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, he resigned himself to his fate. But even if it was his stupid decision to complete the story, he was determined not to go back into crime alley unprepared. He needed to know what he was doing if he wanted to make it out alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His first step to getting justice for the family was to try and find out everything he could about Enrico Inzerillo. Equipped with more coffee and a warm comfortable jacked he wandered over to the small library which had been a big reason why he had chosen this hotel in the first place. He reached his destination with a now empty cup of coffee at 10 am sharp and had to wait a few more minutes before one of the employees opened the door for him. So far, he was still the only customer, but that would change soon as the day progressed. This place was amazing, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not only did they have old newspaper articles on microfiche, but also a handful of computers with internet access which he could use for free. Lois may frown down at working like that, much preferring a private internet connection to work in the quiet of her room, but Clark liked the steady stream of noise around him while he worked. The calming smell of paper and books was a bonus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But even with all the resources available to him, it wasn’t easy to find anything about a private man like Mr. Inzerillo. After hours of switching between the computer, various papers and even asking employees he didn't find out much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew that a man like by that name was the head of the Inzerillos, an influential mob family. And like you might expect from a mob family, they were rich, had their hands in various kinds of crimes, and no one could pin anything on them. And they were far more dangerous and better organized than the Hanoi Ten.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which meant that this was the point where Clark would have to make the smart decision and give up before he ended up on the bottom of Gotham bay. No one would blame him. He had tried, but this was way over his head. A single reporter couldn’t go up against the mob when not even the police stood a chance. That would just be suicidal. He would just pack his bag, go to Metropolis, apologize to Mr. White, and stay alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who was he kidding? Apparently, he had gone insane in the last 24 hours. He wouldn’t be able to let it go until he’d tried everything. He had the name of a place where members of the mob sometimes hung out, and it looked decent enough. He would just swing by and take a look without drawing attention to himself, and then he could go home. He wasn't looking for trouble after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would do just that after a short nap. He hadn't closed his eyes since he’d left Metropolis the day before, and it was getting to him. He would just take a few hours, nothing more. Just a short moment to rest his eyes, and then he could go in the afternoon while it was still bright outside.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~*~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He came to with an audible gasp, the image and sensation of a gun pressed to his head still present in his mind. A nightmare, no, a memory. Only this time, Matches hadn't gestured for him, but had shaken his head, and Clark had heard the metallic click of the trigger being pulled before he had come awake. He shivered, trying to shake off the grasp the dream still held on him. It was okay. He was okay. Matches had saved him. They made it out. He was sitting in his dusky hotel room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The same room he had planned to leave hours ago after a short nap. But because he had forgotten to set an alarm, he had rested far longer than planned and now he could see from the window that it was twilight. However, it was too late to mourn the loss of the daylight hours, even if he would have felt much safer going outside while the sun was still out. He would just have to make do. The sooner he got this done, the sooner he could leave the hellhole that was Gotham.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He checked the address again. It was so close, you could practically throw a rock and it would land in Crime Alley. This time, he didn't even try to blend in by changing his clothing. It hadn't worked last night, and he would just stand out more if his appearance didn’t match the rest of him. Gothemites apparently had a talent for sniffing out people who were outsiders, and he didn’t feel like pissing them off more by pretending he was one of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took the bus from the start this time, having learned his lesson about the usefulness (or lack thereof) of the train system. Mainly that they were great for the nice public places, but for anywhere remotely shady, they were totally useless if you weren't ready to jump off the train when it passed over the district on the elevated road. And given that Clark wasn't one of Gotham’s notorious Bat vigilantes, who reportedly participated in train surfing on a regular basis, he would end up a smear on the asphalt if he dared to try it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took him about half an hour to reach his destination, with the bus halting regularly and letting people off on their way home. Clark was one of the last passengers to get off the bus. Who would have thought that Crime Alley was not a popular destination? But at least this time, he was able to find the building in question without trouble. The bright posters plastered over the wall were a big help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this was as far as his luck lasted. Suddenly, a hand grasped his shoulder and Clark had a terrifying flashback of last night, already anticipating the sound of a gun. He hadn't even made it past the door before he was dragged off toward the small dead end beside the building and pressed against the wall there, two tall bodies looming over him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why were criminals in Gotham always at least one centimetre taller than him? And what was it with dimly lit alleys and dead ends in Gotham, anyway? Had someone planned the city layout specifically to encourage crime? Why hadn’t anybody tried to change the city layout to lower the crime rate? Heck, the Bat could probably just close off most of the alleys or brighten them up with a gadget or invention like the ones that seemed to always be a part of his arsenal, which, according to rumour, he carried around in a fanny pack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey arsehole, what are you doing here?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark squeaked as he was pushed and then pinned against the wall with force, pressed by the body of a man who stank like he hadn't washed in days.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing." Yeah, okay, he should have expected the punch to the gut following his reply. But he had panicked. He gasped and tried to get his breath back. To his relief, they apparently knew what they were doing and how to intimidate without incapacitating and had held back, making the punch hurt a lot less than it could have. Though it was still very painful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I-I just read about this place. I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I can just go. You won't see me again. Ever."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure, you did. Why don't we take you to our boss and you tell him just that, hmm?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"B-Boss?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't worry. Just a friendly chat. Nothing harmful." The wicked smile the man wore made Clark really doubt the other’s truthfulness. And given that he had been picked up so close to a building belonging to the Inzerillo family, he could guess who the boss was. And yeah, he had wanted to find information on the man, but he hadn't planned on meeting him face to face. Or worse, be dragged before him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That sounds really nice, but I'm sure your boss is quite a busy man. I would feel terrible about inconveniencing him."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark squirmed, trying to get out of the other’s grip, but the other man just shifted his weight and had Clark effectively pinned again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, no, he wouldn't mind. He is always up for such delightful company. You see, he has been a bit lonesome since the Bats started taking the pretty birds under their wings."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now this whole thing had taken a turn into the creepy. Fantastic. And it didn't look like Clark could talk his way out of this. Fighting hadn't ever been an option. But maybe he would be fast enough to run? Get somewhere safe? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shifted his own weight to the side and looked over the man’s shoulder toward the exit. It was quite a long way away, and the man’s companion was guarding it. There was no way he could make it past him. Damn. His shoulders slumped, and he went almost limp all the fight going out of him now that he’d realized the hopelessness of his situation. He was just about to close his eyes to try to keep his frustration and tears inside—screaming at them wouldn't make it any better—when he noticed someone passing by and perked up. If he could scream for help, maybe they would let him go?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His excitement instantly vanished the moment he remembered where he was. The first thing people were taught when visiting Gotham was not to scream for help because no one would listen, and you just wasted your last breath before you were silenced. You were on your own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d closed his mouth again in resignation when his eyes met startlingly familiar ones. It took him an embarrassing long time to place them, but, in his defence, he was pressed against a very uncomfortable wall, he’d been threatened with  meeting one of Gotham’s biggest crime bosses, and his stomach was already bruising. Plus, he never would have expected to see Matches ever again. But apparently they were destinated to meet every time Clark did something stupid in Gotham.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stared at each other for a moment, and Clark half expected Matches to turn away and continue walking. They weren't friends, after all, and their business arrangement was over. Only the Bats seemed to go out of their way to actively save people without any gain. And maybe </span>
  <span>Commissioner Gordon.</span>
  <span> And Matches had warned Clark to stay away from Crime Alley. It was neither his fault nor responsibility if Clark was dead set on ignoring all his warnings and getting in trouble. But once again, he showed that he was more than just a heartless criminal and that there was a kind spirit underneath that rough exterior.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Babe, there you are!" There was true happiness in Matches’ voice as he switched course and marched over to them, totally ignoring the position they were in and smoothly sliding in between Clark and the man pressing him against the wall. This gave Clark some breathing room again. Or at least it did for a moment, until Matches took his place plastering himself all over Clark, his hands wandering over his chest in a lecherous manner, but Clark suspected he was checking for injuries.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was afraid you were already warming another bed tonight."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark just stared at him in total confusion; he had stopped registering the conversation and just shook his head in answer before the meaning of Matches’ words truly hit him and he turned a bright red, lowering his wide eyes to the floor. Matches just laughed in clear amusement as his fingers wandered underneath Clark's chin and lifted it in a practiced movement, leaving Clark with no other choice but to meet the other’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, sugar, aren't you just so sweet?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pressed as close as they were, Clark could feel Matches stiffening, but the man hid it well, keeping his tension completely out of his face. He took another moment to caress Clark's cheek before his eyes left Clark’s and he turned his head, looking at the man, who had now taken a fighting stance behind Matches’ back. Not that Matches really reacted to it. He just swept his eyes over the other man before leaning more into Clark, the hand not on Clark's face wandering lower until his fingers scraped over Clark’s belt possessively. But his eyes never left the ones of Inzerillo's henchmen, a clear challenge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can I help you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can you help me? Can you HELP ME?! Yes, you can. This man was snooping around. Hanging around the place, looking around."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Him?" Matches let out a loud, carefree laugh and kept laughingto the point where he had tears in his eyes and was gasping for breath before sobering back up again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, darling, were you embarrassed, again? Too afraid to go inside? You know no one will mind us, right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand was stroking Clark’s face again, and the other was joining it, leaving his belt alone, to Clark’s utter relief. Then Matches leaned forward and started leaving featherlight kisses on his face until Clark started to relax. Only then did he start devouring Clark’s mouth, the affectionate gesture turning absolutely filthy. Clark's fingers clawed at Matches’ shoulders, unsure if he should push the other man away or pull him closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, sharp nails dug into Clark’s nape, and he gasped in shock, giving Matches the perfect chance to lick into his mouth to the point where Clark was getting lightheaded from lack of oxygen and the only thing keeping him upright was Matches’ well-toned chest pinning him in place. When Matches finally pulled back, his teeth dragged on Clark's bottom lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark just breathed, trying to get air into his lungs and his brain back into working order. It took him several awkward seconds before he realized that the blackness was because of his closed eyes, and another second before he managed to open them again. When had he even closed them? He felt absolutely debauched, and he knew he wouldn't look any better, with his kiss-swollen lips and rumpled clothes and him desperately clinging to Matches, swaying and clearly not standing upright on his own power.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"See, sugar? No one will judge you for sleeping with me." Matches looked pointedly at the mobsters standing behind them, and when Clark followed his gaze, he saw that one was red-faced and looking at everything else but them, clearly as embarrassed as Clark. The other one was gaping at them, open-mouthed and caught between disbelief and fascination.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If you would excuse us, gentlemen. It seems like I have to take this one to bed right now." And with this, Matches’ arm circled his waist possessively, pressing him close and dragging him out of the alley. Clark was surprised and still too unsteady on his feet to make a graceful exit, so Matches mostly just carried him before he remembered how his knees worked and he managed to walk on his own accord.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They made it a few blocks like this before Matches decided it was safe enough to stop pretending and shoved him against a wall. Again. This was really a trend today, and Clark couldn't surpress a groan when the bruises on his shoulders made contact with the stone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What the hell were you thinking?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry." Clark's voice was small. He was well aware of what would have happened if Matches hadn't swooped in and saved him again. As unorthodox as his method had been, it was effective. Matches scowled at him a bit longer, but then he calmed down again.  His whole stance relaxed, and he stepped back, leaving Clark’s personal space again. Clark was surprised that the man seemed more annoyed, maybe even concerned, instead of angry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Get out of here." The man stepped back and turned to leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait! You are going after Enrico Inzerillo, right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That is none of your concern. Go home."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark watched the man go, but before he could completely lose sight of him, he started running, following him with some distance between them, but always making sure to keep an eye on the man. When Matches disappeared behind a corner, he slowly crept forward until he could look around it and startled when suddenly there was no sign of Matches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Matches couldn't just have disappeared, and there hadn't been enough time to go far, so Clark just hurried onward. The buildings left and right were unassuming, and Clark doubted he had gone inside, so that only left following the road or one of the tight pathways going left and right. He checked every single one before running to the next. On his fifth try, he nearly stumbled into the man himself as he leaned forward to look into the path.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stumbled back a step, having been too close to the man’s chest already today, and looked up with a bit of guilt. For a moment, Matches only looked surprised before his face turned darker than Clark had ever seen it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I told you to go back."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will not."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't force me to get rough with you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches got closer, his expression threatening and shoulders squared, but Clark stood his ground, not taking a step back. He was sure Matches wouldn't hurt him. The man didn't want to show it, but he was a softy. He had no problem with punching other criminals or going after someone who owed him or his bosses a debt, but someone like Clark, who didn't belong to his world of violence, was off limits. He’d even gone out of his way to protect him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Clark was sure he was in no danger. The man was all bark and no bite, wanting to scare him away. But Clark wouldn't let him. This was his investigation as much as it was Matches’. They had started it together, and Clark would stick around until they also ended it together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You won't hurt me. You can either take me with you on your own accord, or I will just keep following you around, drawing attention to us both."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, Clark hadn't meant for it to sound like he was blackmailing Matches into taking him, making him think he would endanger the other man’s search for Harrison Morrigan. But it was the truth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"H-how...how do you know that?" Suddenly all the bravado and confidence Matches so openly displayed all the time was gone. As if he couldn't believe that someone trusted him. It made Clark a bit sad that no one else bothered to see the true man underneath the surface. That showing trust and believing in the good in him could shake this strong man to the core. It made Clark want to hug him, but he was sure he would be pushed away if he tried. Instead he looked at the man with sad eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because you are a good person at heart. You do what you have to survive and act rough, but you are still a good man."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches’ breath hitched and Clark was already afraid he had said too much and Matches would run when a small smile appeared on his face. Compared to all the other over-the-top-emotions Matches had shown, this barely there lift of the corners of his lips stood out to Clark. It wasn’t easy to spot and seemed like Matches wasn’t even aware he was doing it, which made it seem more real and less exaggerated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Clark knew this was not Matches Malone, the criminal parading around his territory or acting to get what he wanted, but the real man hidden underneath. And Clark liked that he had been able to get a glimpse of him; he couldn't wait to see more. He wanted to learn how to draw out these rare emotions. Every little thing that made Matches’ façade crack. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. The smile fading into something bigger, more predatory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aww, darling. You say the sweetest things. How can I say no to taking such a charmer with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark was a bit sad to see the other man’s walls come back up, but at least he had achieved his goal and could go with Matches. He stepped into the backstreet, and they made their way through a maze of dark pathways so complicated Clark lost any sense of where they were after their fourth turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who had constructed this place? Someone could get lost in here and die, and there was a big chance no one would ever find them. He unconsciously stepped closer to Matches and let his hand brush against the other’s clothes from time to time to assure himself that he was still here and Clark wasn't alone. Matches, being very alert, noticed that it was not a coincidence after the second time, but instead of mocking him for it, just interlaced their arms and continued on as if nothing had happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They walked for nearly an hour, and somehow, Clark had no idea how it was even possible, they ended up inside a dimly lit hall, probably belonging to an abandoned warehouse. He looked back the way they had come, but couldn't even see the door they had just stepped through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would have never been able to find this without Matches. Who had wandered off, inspecting the room’s contents, and was now leaning impatiently against some crates and canisters. Clark quickly hurried over, knowing he was depending on the other man’s goodwill if he ever wanted to find his way back into civilisation. Matches pulled him down until they were both huddled up in the small space conveniently created between the boxes. Matches poked his head out and looked around, scanning their surroundings before he relaxed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark held his breath, waiting for something. But nothing happened. Five minutes later, he started sliding around uncomfortably on the hard concrete before losing his patience. He leaned over and whispered softly into Matches’ ear. "What now?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Now we wait."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"For what?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Enrico Inzerillo?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This is his warehouse?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches just looked at him with a raised eyebrow, which translated the unspoken </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span> perfectly. Well, Clark wasn't really into the whole stake-out-an-abandoned-warehouse scene. Okay, he had been on some stakeouts for the Planet, but nothing like this. Never a mob boss who would kill them if they were found.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How long do we wait?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"As long as it takes for them to show up." Matches didn't seem too bothered by Clark’s questions. Which meant they must still be alone and safe, a feeling which was underscored by Matches’ relaxed posture. The man sat on the ground like he was chilling with a beer somewhere nice. It was kind of unfair how good he looked while doing it. He could be on the cover of a magazine, while Clark no doubt looked like he was about to fall over any second.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Resigning himself to a long time of sitting around and doing nothing, he slumped down, wiggling around until he found a position in which his legs wouldn’t fall asleep. That this position left him leaning against Matches shoulder didn’t really bother him. At this point, this amount of contact was nothing after they had literally made out to throw some mobsters off Clarks trail, and Matches didn't seem to have a concept of personal space anyway. Plus, it was warmer this way. It wasn't really cold per se, but Gotham wasn't the warmest place, especially at night, and the thick stone of the warehouse made the place even colder. Coupled with the dampness inside, it made for an environment that just scratched the line of being uncomfortable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He fiddled around a bit, looking for something to keep him occupied, but the light of his phone would have drawn too much attention, and it was too dark in their hiding place for his notebook. With nothing better to do, he looked at Matches’ profile. Or as much as was visible from his awkward position against the man’s shoulder. Matches himself leaned sideways from time to time, checking their surroundings, but he was careful, so Clark just moved with him so he never got displaced or shaken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thank you. For helping me earlier. You didn't have to. So, thanks." It felt strange to whisper like this, and Clark wasn't even sure it was still safe to whisper, but so far, Matches hadn't told him to shut up, so he guessed they were still alone. At least for now. He could feel Matches’ shoulder move under his cheek as the man shrugged in a gesture that could mean he didn't mind helping Clark out. Or at least, Clark was interpreting it that way for now. Then heavy silence fell over them again, and Clark just closed his eyes and listened to the other’s breathing, trying to relax.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hope Ms. Lane won't mind."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark's eye blinked open again as he tried to find any meaning in this sentence. What wouldn't Lois mind? That Clark was hiding out between stacks of boxes and probably in danger of being killed by a Gotham mobster? Because she was a bloody hypocrite and would mind very much even if she herself pursued leads for her stories without regard for her health or safety? Or that Clark would have a better story than she did for once? Or was it the fact that he had managed to somehow befriend a criminal and develop a crush on him in the process? Wait, first of all, how did he know who Lois was?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please, everyone knows about Lois Lane and Clark Kent. The best the Daily Planet has to offer, together through thick and thin, professionally and privately. I read your article about a certain dark angel watching over Gotham. A bit tacky and it lacked the big reveal, but it was enjoyable." Huh, apparently he had spoken at least the last part out loud. Or, going by the fond smile on Matches’ face, even more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn't help the pleasant warmth in his belly when Matches called him the best the Planet had to offer. After how bad the last weeks had been and all the self-doubt they invoked, it felt good to hear this. Now that he thought about it, since he had met Matches, he hadn't doubted himself as much as before. Sure, there had been a lot of moments where he had failed in finding his way or had stumbled into dangerous situations, but he had never felt incompetent. And that even with him ending up with a gun to his head. But he hadn't fallen into a slump or felt like just lying down and never getting up again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, wait. Privately?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait a minute...you think me and Lois...are together? Like together together." He was well aware that a grown man like him shouldn't use phrases like “together together,” but he was confused and a bit shocked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>First of all, he had thought all the poking and fun people made of him at the Planet had just been that—fun. After all people teased him all the time. He hadn’t thought anybody actually believed they were a couple. He worked with professional journalists, after all. You could expect that they would do some research and not just believe the first rumours they heard. Second of all, this was Gotham City. Lois was well known, yes, but he would never have believed that hearsay about her relationships would reach people in the Gotham underbelly. And third, Matches was apparently dead set on believing this rumour which meant...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait, did you snog me today thinking I had a girlfriend waiting for me back in Metropolis?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> Matches looked a bit guilty and was trying to get some space between them, which Clark was not having. He wouldn't be cold just because Matches had a conscience which made him uncomfortable. Falsely so, on top of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It was the only way to get them to back off. Which is why I said I hope Ms. Lane wouldn’t mind. I won’t tell her, so she will never know if you keep your mouth shut."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh no. I'm so going to tell her that I made out with an attractive guy." Matches tensed up, clearly uncomfortable with the prospect of Clark telling Lois. He didn't even react to Clark calling him attractive. Which was why Clark powered on before the man could open his mouth and ruin the moment. "While her last respectable date sucked so much, she had to call me to rescue her before she got arrested for punching the guy. It will be great payback for all the teasing I get for never getting any action."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So...you and her? Are not...you know?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dating? Nope." Clark popped the P. "At least, not anymore. We were convinced we loved each other a few years back and tried dating, but it didn't last. It burned down spectacularly, actually. Nearly destroyed our friendship in the progress. Not a good time. Took us a while till we understood that we may love each other, but like family and not, you know…love love. We are way better off as best friends for eternity. Plus, it is so much more fun if you can talk about hot guys or girls. Although I always end up playing wingman."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, bummer. He hadn’t planned on sharing so much about his love life. He had just wanted to assure him it was okay and that was it. But somehow, it had felt right to make Matches understand the situation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe because after Lois, he had never really found someone whom he had clicked with the way he did with Matches. Although this time, he was pretty sure there was nothing brotherly in it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Guys and girls? So you are...?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Frankly speaking? I don't care. If I like them and they like me, it doesn't matter."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches seemed relieved he wouldn’t be getting all of Lois’ fury directed at him and a bit curious, but he didn't give anything away about his thoughts on Clark’s revelation about his sexuality. Which was kind of unsatisfactory. Because Clark would have liked to know. Not that he even believed he had a chance. Matches was clearly out of his league, and then there was still the problem of him being a criminal and all that. But if Clark said he wasn't attracted to the other man, he would be lying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, even if he was a hopeless romantic at heart, he knew that only knowing a man for two days wasn't enough to say he was The One. Matches might have turned out to be his knight in shining armour, but he knew basically nothing about the man. It would be stupid to allow any deeper feelings than a passing attraction. But Clark couldn't help his fascination and curiosity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What about you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. I mean...do you mind? Me being... you know?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No." After this tentative word, Matches stopped, clearly lost in his thoughts, contemplating what he could reveal to Clark and what had to stay hidden. Clark let him. When he was ready, he would continue speaking, and if not, that was okay too. Clark didn't have to know. There just would never be anything real between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I never really had...reason to think about it." Well, that might not be a yes, but it wasn't really a no either. Which was bad because it got Clark’s hopes up. It would have been better if it was just a no, thank you. He would have been able to get over it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well that—" Suddenly a hand pressed over Clark’s mouth, effectively shutting him up, so the shushing that followed was really unnecessary. The easy atmosphere was gone, and Matches was leaning sideways, carefully looking out from their hiding place before easing back into their hiding place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark strained his ears, trying to clue into what had tipped Matches off that they had to be quiet now. To his dismay, he couldn't make out anything wrong. No footsteps or voices. But he trusted in Matches, and if the man thought that they had to be quiet, he would be quiet. It only took three more minutes of total silence before Clark could make out what had set Matches off. He could hear murmurs, which quickly got clearer as the group—and it had to be a group, with the number of unique speakers—came closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"...tell you to take care of it," demanded an angry voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Absolutely, sir," was the quick answer, until a shaking unsure voice chimed in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Even if he hasn't talked yet, Boss?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was absolute silence as everyone held their breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then make them talk," said the first voice now calm but still with easily recognizable anger mixed in. Being the bringer of bad news was never a thankful task. But that was interesting information.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And how do we do that?" Well, this minion was in trouble. And as soon as Clark thought it, there was a pained grunt. Asking your boss how to do your job was one of the stupidest things you could do, and Clark was actually surprised that the man was still conscious enough to groan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Use his family if you have to. But I want the location by tomorrow evening, or I will make sure all of you regret it. We can’t risk the Bat catching onto us. So, if you want to keep your useless heads on your shoulders, be discreet, if you even know what the word means." If they were really talking about Harrison, the man was in bigger trouble than Clark had thought. Not only were he and his family in the hands of one of the biggest mobs of Gotham, but he also had information the group wanted. At least he was smart enough not to just give it up, or he would have outlived his usefulness and he and his family would be dead by now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Enrico was losing his patience which meant that time, for the Morrigan family, was running out. And with the ultimatum hanging over their heads, the henchmen would stop at nothing to get what they needed to stay on their boss’ good site. And they only needed Harrison. His family was expendable. Clark couldn’t stand the thought of the children suffering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabbed Matches’ hand and looked at him with big, scared eyes. He had known when he started this investigation that Harrison was in a bad situation, but this was worse than everything he had imagined. He was surprised when Matches squeezed back. The man shouldn't care, apart from the fact that he wouldn't be able to get the money he was owed if the man was dead. But the fury in his eyes said this wasn’t just about money. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only the mobsters had been stupid enough to reveal where they held Harrison and his family, then Clark could tell the police and get them free before their time was up. But at this point, he had not the slightest idea, and if they tipped the criminals off that someone was onto them, the mobsters would dispose of the Morrigans right away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were some more steps that passed their hiding spot, but they soon vanished completely. Just as Clark opened his mouth to ask Matches what they would do now, the hand reappeared over his face, saving them, as soon enough, there was some shuffling just outside the boxes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fucking hell, we are in so much shit." There was a kick accompanying the angry exclamation just against the crate they were leaning on. Clark could feel it move against his back and flinched instinctively, pressing closer against Matches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were more kicks and then the metallic click of a lighter over and over again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"FUCK!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, calm down." There were more steps coming closer, and then just another clicking before they could hear a deep inhale. "We will just make them talk. Carve up his kids a bit until he starts singing, eh? No problem at all."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, they couldn't. Clark was about to get up to do something, anything, when Matches pulled him back down by their still-joined hands, sending him an angry glare. And Clark knew that it was stupid, but he couldn't just sit here and listen to them planning to injure kids. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait," was hissed quietly but intensely into his ear, and as he had so many times before, he listened to Matches. He nodded slowly, and the hand disappeared from Clark’s face, but the other hand stayed interlaced with Clark's, keeping him close. They were just sitting there, listening to the two thugs smoke and curse, kicking the boxes from time to time. But then it grew quiet until another muffled groan broke the silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Damn, the boss hits hard." It looked like the stupid idiot was back on his feet again, and from the sound of it, was slowly making his way over to his two friends. There was a heavy thud, and the boxes at top swayed dangerously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So are we going to the icebox? Should I get my coat?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You moron. It's shut down."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thank god for dumb henchmen. Even if you thought that no one was listening, you should choose your words more carefully. Now Clark at least had an idea of where he needed to look for the missing family.  A walk-in fridge, cold storage, or even a refrigerator car which was no longer in working condition. Which was good, because with how long the family had already been missing, they would’ve been dead already if they had been locked in a cold environment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe if he could speak with the detective again and convince him to look into it, they could find wherever they kept them. They would have to check a lot of places, but there were lives at stake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently, the other henchmen were following the suggestion of the idiot now, because Clark could hear them leaving. He had thought they would try following them, but Matches didn't seem to trust Clark enough to pull it off, and rightfully so. Or at least, he kept Clark in a sitting position and just waited.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wow, really they are going with the dumbass’ idea?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mumbled words just came out without his consent. And he was shocked by them himself, but not as bad as Matches. The man was stiff for a moment before he barked out in laughter. A bit too rough to sound pleasing, almost teetering on the edge of manic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It stopped abruptly as Matches caught himself again. Clark couldn't help himself, staring at Matches in surprise. The man was always so in control, so Clark was surprised he had gotten under his skin enough to shake him out of his concentration and made him make a mistake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches leaned out of their hiding place again and watched warily before slowly sneaking out, but staying low. There was no screaming or gunfire, so they were still in the clear. Clark slowly followed Matches, also keeping low to the ground, but just looking laughable like this. Luckily for Clark's dignity, he didn't have to stay this way for long, as Matches guided him back to the hidden door, which looked like it had been closed for years but easily opened with a slight push. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had to get through cramped corridors and go down some steps into an underground tunnel, only to climb back up the first chance they got and then even higher with some emergency staircases. This route took a lot more effort, and Clark was panting by the end of it, but it was also a lot quicker to get away from the warehouse and any mobsters who might be hanging around it. And soon enough, they were back in an more-or-less civilised area, which was when Clark had to stop and catch his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches just waited patiently for Clark, and he felt bad for what he had to do next. Matches had been a really big help, and he owed the man but his conscience would not forgive him if he didn't do something. At this point, he didn't even care anymore that it would lose him the article. Because he could either get the scoop for his story or ensure the safety of the family. Setting the police on the mobsters would draw attention, and every good news outlet had at least one source in local law enforcement. Which meant that tomorrow morning, it would be all over every newspaper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But waiting till he got back to the Planet and submitted his story was not an option. Even if he ran straight back, wrote up the article, and sent it to Mr. White, it would only be put into the morning edition, right alongside all the other press covering the story, if he was lucky. Which still left the criminals with the better part of the night to do harm. Clark might love being a reporter, but no job was worth selling his soul for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will have to inform the police."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew he should at least try to lie to Matches so the man wouldn’t stop him, but it felt wrong. And he knew that Matches was a good guy, so he trusted that he knew what the right thing to do in this situation was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was just a small knowing smile on Matches face, which Clark couldn't interpret.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, I'm really sorry. I know I'm messing up your job, and once police have Harrison, he and his family will be taken into protective custody, and you will never be able to collect the debt, but I just can't let them be hurt or killed when I know where they are. Or at least where the police should be looking for them."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just hoped Matches didn’t get into much trouble with his boss for not getting the money back. He didn’t want the man to end up as the next Harrison, just going missing. Only this time it would be worse because it wouldn’t simply be a name on a page but someone he knew and cared about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Matches didn’t even seem surprised; it was like he had expected Clark to react exactly this way all along. And wasn't it a bit flooring that Matches knew him so well, when the man hadn’t revealed much about himself? Even the people at the Planet didn't know him like Matches did. At least, not if they still all thought he was together with Lois.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Clark dialled the number of the police station, hoping detective Hartley was still working this late, Matches moved past him. Clark already feared the man would just vanish again when he felt a hand clasping his shoulder and a soft voice in his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They will be holding them in in the walk-in freezer of the shutdown restaurant next to the anemone park, Imperial Crown, or the cold storage of the old fish market by the docks." Then he fell silent for such a long time, Clark would have thought he was gone if it weren't for the large hand still resting on his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Be safe and stay out of trouble, Clark."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This had to be the first time Matches used his real name instead of one of his various pet names, and it left a heavy weight in Clark's stomach. It felt too final, like a farewell, and he didn't want Matches to be gone for good. He knew that they had just met and that it was utterly insane, but the man had become important to him. And sometimes you needed to take a leap of fate, hoping the other person would catch you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when he whirled around to speak to Matches, he found the man was gone without a trace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hello, GCPD. What is your emergency?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark swallowed heavily and blinked away the tears, suddenly feeling sad and alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"My name is Clark Kent. I need to speak to Detective Hartley."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~*~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Clark got up after long hours of restlessness and thinking about Matches, the big bust was over, the family was safe, various individuals were in custody, and the media was going wild. He had emailed the details to Mr. White last night after informing the police, but the Planet was just one newspaper in the crowd, not standing out at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In return, he had only gotten a message from Mr. White that he didn't have to arrive back this week and that he would be expected back first thing in the morning on Monday. Which meant he still had his job, even if he couldn't understand why. He had failed to deliver an exclusive, after all. And on top of that, he’d gotten a few days off with a paid hotel room to boot. Okay, it was a cheap hole-in-the-wall in Gotham, but still. A hotel room paid for by the Planet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not yet ready to face Lois’ questions and still too hung up about Matches, he decided to stay in Gotham a few days longer and take the train back on the weekend. He knew the chances he would run into Matches again were small, but maybe, just maybe he would get lucky. He just couldn’t get over Matches’ last words. How final they had sounded, and now that Clark had been able to sleep on it, he was worried.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So for the third night in a row, he went out and roamed around Crime Alley. This time, no one picked on him; the criminal element was still to spooked by the high number of arrests the police had made thanks to Mr. Harrison's statement. But he also didn't find any traces of Matches Malone, no matter what he tried and how many people he asked. It was as if the man had vanished in thin air. Just like the Harrisons, did only to be discovered in mortal danger. Which did nothing to assuage Clark's worry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By Sunday afternoon, he wasn't the slightest bit closer to finding the man and had to admit defeat for now if he wanted to be back at the Planet in a fresh suit Monday morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, going to Mr. White's office felt a lot less like a walk to the gallows since he knew he still had a job. He knocked quickly and walked in, meeting the man sitting in the exact same spot he had last week.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look who’s back. I want you to help Lois with whatever she is up to, so she stops talking my ear off and make sure to check it before she sends it in. Her writing may be good, but her grammar is horrible."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Absolutely."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was strange to talk like the last week hadn't happened. Like Clark had never been off his game, hadn’t come so close to being fired. He knew he should just walk out the door and do his job, but he just couldn't do it. It was nagging at him too much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm very grateful. But why?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because you, Kent, are way too good a reporter to be let go. But more importantly, you are a good man. Don't think I don't know you were the anonymous source who tipped off the police. The Gazette mentioned there was one, and it could only have been you. Now get out of my office and bring me an exclusive for your next story."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Searching for Matches Malone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After all the excitement in Gotham, normal life should feel a bit dull in comparison. But Clark was okay with dull. He still hadn’t fully processed his last trip, and he found himself getting lost in thought from time to time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then there was Lois, always sticking close and watching him like a hawk, making sure he didn’t throw himself into danger again. He could still vividly remember her fury when he had finally told her the whole story over ice cream, not to mention the slap to his face and tears in her eyes when he got to he part about being held at gunpoint. She had screamed at him for taking such a risk, saying she couldn’t lose her brother like this. Luckily for him, she loved him too much to stay pissed for long and after five minutes of the silent treatment and a long hug, which evolved into cuddling, she demanded to hear the rest, still pressed to his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he had predicted, she had been a bit jealous as he mentioned his kiss with Matches, torn between congratulating him for getting some action and chiding him for making out with a criminal. She teased him about it mercilessly, asking him if there weren’t any respectable man in Gotham who looked decent that he could have made out with instead. She finally decided on groaning loudly when he told her that it wasn’t just about Matches’ looks, but his personality.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t believe that you liked him for his personality. Couldn’t you just settle for lusting after someone for their body like the rest of us? Did you just have to get to know him and fall for him in the process? No, Clark, it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> just a crush. I know you. Lana Lang was a crush. This is different. You adore the man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Lois was always right, so who was Clark to disagree? Maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> pining after the man. But all of it also had its good side. He didn't know how, maybe it was the brush with death, but his trip to Gotham had stopped his downward spiral and set him back onto a better track. He now managed to finish his articles on time and stay on task, mostly at least. But people already expected some deviancy from him and Lois, and more times than not it led them to even greater articles, so they were easily forgiven.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only there weren't this this bottomless hole in his stomach every time he spoke of or thought about Matches. He just couldn't get the man out of his head. And there was always this nagging worry about Matches’ fate. After he had been unsuccessful in finding the man before leaving Gotham, his mind kept coming up with the worst possibilities.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finally broke down after a long day at work and some wine in Lois’ much nicer apartment and told her about his fears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Clark, I know that you worry, but be rational here. The man saved you, what? Four or five times in two nights? Which was mostly your fault for being a moron, but it still stands that he knew what he was doing. No way he was getting in over his head without an exit strategy. Maybe he is still laying low and waiting for things to blow over. Or as much as it pains me to say it, Clark, have you thought that maybe he is just avoiding you? You got him into a lot of trouble with nothing to show for it, and I know that you like him, but maybe it’s not mutual? You are a fantastic man, and let no one tell you otherwise, but maybe you are just not his type."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her voice turned soft at the end as it always did when she had to say something she knew he would have a hard time accepting but which had to be said anyway. She was a real great friend, never wanting to hurt his feelings but not shying away from it if it was for his own good. And she had been right. It hurt his feelings just thinking about it. But he would be able to accept that if it only meant Matches was safe somewhere and Clark wasn't at fault for him suffering for Clark’s decisions. But there was no way to check if the man really was just avoiding him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know you are mostly likely right, Lois, like always. But I just can't stop thinking about it. God, Lois, you didn't hear him back then. The way he sounded. I just can’t stop worrying."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, then, go back."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His head, which he had rested on her lap, shot up in his shock, and their foreheads nearly collided.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"W-wha-what did you say?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Go to Gotham on your next day off. See if anyone has heard anything about him. You will not be able to rest otherwise. I will even come with you and make sure to keep you out of trouble, Smallville."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You are the best, Lois."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don’t I know it. Which means dinner will be on you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But even with Lois at his side, their search came up empty when they went to Gotham, and a return trip on their next day off after that brought no different results. Not wanting Lois to spend even more of her free time on his whims, he decided to make the next trip alone. By now it had become something of a monthly routine, just like the visits to his mother. The staff of the small hotel he stayed at every time greeted him by name now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, after five visits, he should just accept it and stop torturing himself by getting his hopes up every time he stepped off the train that ran from Metropolis to Gotham. He had done everything he could. He had searched and had informed the police, who hadn’t found anything either, but assured him it wasn't his fault and that people like Matches just came and went. But no matter what he tried and on how many blind dates Lois sent him on, he just couldn't forget Matches. Or the kiss they’d shared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew how pointless it was to come to Gotham repeatedly, but he couldn't help himself. It felt like he still had some sort of connection with Matches this way. Although he didn't think at this point that anything would come out of it. Still, it was kind of relaxing, in a way. Something constant he could focus on when everything else became too much for him. And once you got over how different Gotham was compared to Metropolis, it wasn't too bad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark spent most of his days in Gotham reading in the library, and at night he took a stroll through Crime Alley, having stopped fearing it at least two visits ago. And the next morning, he took the first train back and was in the Planet before everyone else. This time was no different. In fact, it was exactly like all the other times before. Until it suddenly wasn't.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had just rounded a corner, one which would take him through a dark street to the little meal cart that was open till 3 in the morning and had the best steamed buns he had ever eaten, when he collided with someone. He stumbled back a step, but quickly found his footing, mumbling a short apology before he finally lifted his gaze and the words froze on his lips. In front of him stood Matches, looking just as he remembered the man, healthy and unharmed. Clark reached out and grabbed the other man’s arm, afraid he would disappear otherwise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was weird; they hadn't really known each other long, and then Matches had been gone for half a year, but he just couldn't stop hanging onto Matches, caught between utter relief that the man was still alive and breathing and disappointment that the man had really ignored him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sugar? What are you doing here?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after all this time the man was still using pet names, and it made Clark’s chest seize up. He wanted to be happy and bask in the attention, seeing affection where probably there was none, but at the same time, he just thought about all the people he must have spoken to like this in the last six months.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re okay." Clark sounded like he was accusing Matches. Which was rude, but given that he’d thought the man was dead in a ditch somewhere, he felt justified.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes? Shouldn't I be?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The confusion on Matches face calmed his temper a bit and stopped him from lashing out, but not from being a bit petty.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I dunno? Maybe the fact that you just vanished after a bad job and no one has seen you in six months made me doubt that a little."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches blinked at him a bit more until his bewilderment slowly gave way to understanding, and then he grimaced, clearly guilty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't realise..."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I noticed." His tone was still a bit too dry, but it was now obvious that Matches had no idea what his silence had done to Clark. And it wasn’t even like Matches was in the wrong here. They’d only known each other for two days. Matches had had no reason to keep Clark informed about his wellbeing. It was just Clark’s stupid affection for the other man that had made this into a big deal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Were you worried about me, sweetheart?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, given that I was the one who called the police, it would have been my fault if you ended up dead." Clark tried to defend himself without mentioning his crush. He turned away, blinking tears out of his eyes. Speaking it out loud had only brought back the fear he’d felt over the last few months.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could feel hands on his face slowly stroking the skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm fine. You didn't get me in any trouble. I was just busy. I'm sorry, love, I should have thought that you would worry. Let me make it up to you. I'm asking some questions, if you want to tag along." He looked at Clark expectantly. But Clark just looked at him, dumbfounded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not good?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches’ voice was soft and perhaps a bit hurt. Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>OH</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Did he perhaps think Clark would like to run headfirst into danger with him? Well, with the track record Clark kept, he probably couldn’t be blamed for assuming as much. After all, so far, he had only seen Clark when he was already in trouble or when he’d basically thrown himself at Matches so that the man would take him to shady places with him. Yeah, not a farfetched assumption at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches had no way of knowing that this was usually not something Clark did and that he would much rather Matches went with him to the food cart and they got a midnight snack together. But Clark was fine with anything if it involved staying close to Matches. Although he would gladly do without being held at gunpoint again if Matches could manage it. The nightmares had plagued him for weeks, some featuring his own death and others ending with Matches’ body dropping to the floor instead as Clark watched helplessly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, it's okay. I just didn't expect you to ask me. It's fine. I will tag along."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches seemed to relax. He took the lead again, and Clark just blindly followed, trusting the man and not even questioning what or who they were even looking for. As they moved away from the alleys Clark knew and back into the maze of backstreets, he could feel the tension building and couldn't help the excitement that all but crackled under his skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Being out with Matches, investigating, searching for leads—it was so different from aimlessly wandering around hoping to find something, which was what he’d been doing for months. The other man just always seemed to know what to do and where to look. And even more importantly, Clark felt safe with him; no matter what they got into, he was sure Matches could handle it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They reached some rundown shop, and Clark wasn't even sure if it was still open or had closed years ago, with all the spiderwebs and dust in the windows. But Matches didn't seem to care. He stopped Clark in his tracks by pressing his palm softly against Clark's chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let his hand linger and searched Clark's face for confirmation he would stay here. He shouldn't have worried. Clark had no desire to go into the building. Matches stepped back and into the shop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the man didn't come back after a few minutes, Clark wandered over so he had the wall at his back and checked his mobile. He had no new messages; people already gotten used to him just vanishing for a whole night every month. He pocketed it again and looked around. There were no other people around; this time of night, sensible folk tended to stick to the bigger, more populated streets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes were drawn to the bright red neon sign in the shape of a woman across the street, which stuck out in the otherwise rather dark place. He furiously blushed when he realised he was staring at a strip club like a total creep. He was relieved when the old door beside him squeaked and Matches came back out much cleaner than Clark had expected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Let's go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Found something out?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches made a satisfied humming sound before guiding Clark with a hand on his back. Clark just enjoyed the contact. He had missed this, just being close to the other man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn't take long for them to get back to territory that Clark vaguely recognized. At least he thought he did. Crime Alley hadn't many outstanding landmarks, especially in the dark, but he was rather sure he had seen this safety hazard in the form of a broken fire escape before. Or he could be wrong, and it was just that too many landlords didn’t care about security.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, the grip on his back tightened, and Matches drew him in closer, pressing his lips to Clark's ear and muttering in a slutty tone that sent arousal right down his middle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't turn around. We’re being followed."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark startled, but the movement was concealed by Matches pressing his lips to his cheek. There was the urge to turn and see for himself, but that would be utterly stupid. If Matches said they were being watched, then they were. He just didn't know why. Did Matches ask the wrong kinds of questions while he was in the store? He looked at the man with big eyes and raised a single eyebrow, but the other one just shook his head and let his gaze flicker over Clark’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Clark hadn't even really investigated the past times he had been here; he’d been looking for Matches and hadn't run into any trouble. But he couldn't be sure. He still stood out in Gotham. Maybe he had attracted attention, maybe someone was suspicious of him. He didn't know. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Helplessly, he lifted his shoulders. He really hoped this was not his fault. He had just apologised for endangering Matches; he didn't want to see his nightmare become a reality. Especially if he was the intended target. If this was really his fault, then it should be on him to get them out of this. He couldn't depend on Matches to save him every time he ran into trouble in Gotham. This time, he had to make it on his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stepped to the side, away from Matches’ hand, and turned to face whoever could unsettle a man like Matches. Hopefully, he could buy Matches enough time to get away. If they had just expected an easy pushover, then Clark stood at least a small chance of surprising them enough to be not instantly taken down. After their not-so-friendly display, they would perhaps go after Matches when they were done with Clark, but the man was good enough to vanish for six months. He could hide from whoever was after Clark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But before he could make his suicide plan a reality, he was grabbed roughly by his shoulders and pulled around. A startled yelp escaped him. For the second time today, he collided with Matches’ hard chest and had to hold on to the other man to stay on his feet, Matches bearing most of his weight with ease. An arm around his waist pressed him even closer, but the steel-like grip was strong enough to hurt. A hand on his face apparently turned it up, and his protest was swallowed as lips pressing to his, demanding and then an angry. Matches bit on his lips hard, and he tasted copper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm so sorry, darling, it was just a joke. Don't be angry with me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The line sounded calm and apologetic, and Clark would have believed him if it weren’t for the taste of blood on his lips. Before Clark could reply to this absolute outlandish statement, he could feel Matches kissing up to his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you want to get killed?" The hissed words were angry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches’ actions had conveniently placed Clark close to his ear, and so Clark just replied, "I’m trying to keep you out of this. If they are after me, then you should have a chance to get away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could feel Matches’ reaction in the way the grip on his back tightened painfully for a second, and Clark was sure there would be bruises in the form of Matches fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What the hell gave you the right to decide that? You want to keep your conscience clear, yeah? How do you think I would sleep at night, knowing I just let you die?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To be fair Clark had never seen it from that perspective. But he should have expected it. Matches was a good man, a great man even. He wouldn’t just be able to stand by and watch Clark die without at least trying to save him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches instantly relaxed again and let Clark go, just interlacing their fingers and started pulling him along again. It looked like he had some sort of plan besides running toward his own death, which was highly appreciated. They passed some more houses before turning a corner, still acting as if they hadn't noticed anything was amiss, but Clark could see two shady-looking men coming in their direction from the front. Without much choice, they turned another corner, and Matches started sprinting, dragging Clark behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They could hear an angry scream behind them, but before their pursuers could catch up to them, Matches pushed a nondescript-looking house door open and started running up the stairs two at a time. Clark barely managed to follow. On the second floor, he ran past two doors and hammered on the third. When it was opened by a confused-looking elderly lady, he just pushed past as she gasped in shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry," Clark gasped as they stormed through the small living room, only stopping so Matches could force the window open and jump out on the fire escape before helping Clark out. They started climbing again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the middle of a flight of stairs, Matches suddenly stopped, climbed on the railing and leaned over in the direction of the next building. He pulled down a metal chain carefully hidden so you wouldn’t know it was there if you weren’t looking for it. With one strong pull, a wooden plank fell from the other building, making for a sort of very unstable gangway. He held out his hand and helped Clark climb on the railing and find his footing before carefully leading him over the abyss. When they made it to the other side, he just pulled the wooden plank back up, hiding how they had managed to get over. Then he grabbed Clark’s hand again and resumed their running.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every time they had to cross the small spaces between houses, Matches would slow down on the other side, ready to catch Clark if he couldn't manage it. The shouts of the men tailing them got quieter and quieter as they gained ground, and Clark started to get giddy. He should be terrified, but quite frankly, he didn't feel afraid with Matches at his side guiding and protecting him, making sure he was safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had moved to ground level again and were sprinting through another backstreet when suddenly a dark figure stepped out before them. Clark didn't even have time to shout, his world already tilting, his shoulder collided with the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shot rang out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he turned around, he could only watch as Matches grabbed side before, he slowly fell on his knees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then there was only anger. He could hear a scream as he collided with the shooter, both of them going down and rolling on the ground. They was no struggle. He looked down at the lifeless body beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh no. No no no. He hadn't meant—This was not... no no NO NO!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He surged forward, fingers reaching out to find a pulse, a breath, his own heart pounding in his chest in his panic. The rise and fall under his fingers were the only thing still grounding him to reality. The man was still alive. Unconscious but alive. Clark wasn’t a murderer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gun was still in the hand of their attacker, and Clark pushed his sleeve over his hand before pushing it away under a trash container.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The threat was gone. They were safe now. He and Matches were safe. Matches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark whirled around and ran over to the man who lay on his side, blood already straining his shirt. He fell on his knees beside him, his hand hovering close, not sure if he should touch or if that would only bring pain. Breathing was getting harder, and that was so wrong. Clark was fine; he should be helping and not gasp for air. What was wrong with him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was not the one who had been shot. Matches had pushed him to the side and had literally taken a bullet for him and was now bleeding. Just like in Clark's nightmare. The ones he had made a reality. Because of his insistence on coming to Gotham, because he’d tagged along with Matches, because he had slowed the other man down. And now Matches would die because of him. And all of it only to protect him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a pained grunt as Matches rolled onto his back and reached out to Clark, his fingers pressing against his chest. It was too much. Way too much. His vision was swimming and darkened at the edge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"C-Clark...breathe."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t resist holding on to the voice. He took a deep breath, only noticing then how close he had gotten to passing out. Thick tears were streaming down his face and falling on Matches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands pressed over the one Matches already tried to slow the blood flow with, but it was easy to see how hopeless it was. There was just too much blood. Matches wouldn't make it if he didn't get help right now. Clark let go with one hand and searched for his phone in his jacket, but he came back empty. He must have lost it while on the run.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can't just leave you alone. They will catch up soon."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Which is why you will go and get help." The argument sounded weak, Matches obviously not believing it himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No I can't. I...I—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please, Clark."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark nodded shakily. He didn't want to leave Matches, but there was not much he could do, and if Matches didn't get to a hospital soon, he would die. That didn't stop him from worrying. They both know that there was no guarantee Matches would hold out for long or that in the time Clark was gone, no one would come along, find him helpless, and finish the job. And Clark didn't want him to die alone. But the man was desperate to send him away. Not to get help, but to get him away. Even dying, Matches still tried to protect him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay...okay." Clark just couldn't let go of Matches hand and find the energy to get up. He couldn't even manage to look anywhere beside the blood. He would stay here and die too, and then Matches sacrifice would be in vain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey....hey." When this didn’t get Clark’s attention, Matches’ free hand smacked uncoordinatedly against Clarks shoulder. Clark’s glassy gaze snapped up and focused on Matches’ pained face. Matches’ shaking fingers reached into his pocket as he searched for something, but couldn't find it. The effort made his breath laboured, and he swore softly. Not being able to watch the struggle any longer, Clark leaned forward and got his hand into the inside pocket, his fingers brushing Matches’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shh. It's okay. I got this."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew why Matches had struggled. The inside pocket had another hidden zipper, which he had to pull down to reveal the object inside. He had expected anything, maybe something with information on it or a phone, but he pulled out a watch. A nice-looking watch, although a bit old, but Clark wasn't really an expert. Perplexed, he just looked at the watch and let his finger wander over it, feeling an inscription on the inside. He turned it over and could just make out the words in the dim light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas my love, forever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was Thomas Matches’ real name? Because Clark had known that Matches must be some sort of alias. And love? Maybe a wife or husband? But Matches had been flirting with him, so maybe it was someone he had lost? Or a family member, perhaps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But clearly the watch was very important to Matches, so he held it out to the man. But instead of just taking it, the man just closed Clark's fingers around the object. Clark looked up at Matches in confusion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Take it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I-I can't. It's yours."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I want you to have it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The watch in Clark's hands suddenly felt heavy. If he took it, he wouldn't be able to lie to himself anymore. Wouldn't be able to pretend that Matches would make it. The watch would be Matches’ last goodbye. He turned their hands around and pushed the watch into Matches’ fingers before closing them with both hands. He pressed a soft kiss to the bloody fist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look after it for me. You can give it to me when you are better."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Clark." The words were soft and sad. Matches knew that he wouldn't be able to keep this promise, that this was his last goodbye. But Clark just couldn't fulfil his wish. If he took the watch, he wouldn't be able to get up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will be back for you. Just wait for me, okay? Please, please, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> wait for me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark leaned forward, his lips softly brushing over Matches’ before he stumbled back on his feet and started running. He staggered through the dark streets, completely aimless with no sense of direction without Matches until he came to a shop that still had its light on. He pushed inside and came face to face with a young-looking girl cleaning the counter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"P-please I need help." The girl looked at him taking in his bloody hands, his rumbled look and the tear tracks on his face before she turned around and balked. Clark sunk to his knees crying, hoping she would call the police on him. He was ripped out of his thoughts when suddenly two strong hands were on his shoulders shaking him. He blinked until he could make out a woman kneeling in front of him, her lips frantically moving. The young girl was standing behind the woman and looking at Clark with a worried look on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"-ned? What happened?!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I-I...he...god he is..."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh no. Calm down. Just breathe with me. Shhh everything will be all right. Just breathe with me, okay? And then you tell me what happened so I can help."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was it with Clark and not being able to breathe? He had to help Matches. He had no time to cry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another sob escaped him, and he fell forward, leaning heavily against the woman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They followed us. He was shot. I...he needs help...he. I knocked him down. But his friends—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Panic creeped into Clark’s veins. He could see it. Matches laying on the ground, holding his bleeding side, weak and helpless as they stepped out of the shadows and loomed over him. They wouldn’t even need a gun. They would use their fist and feet till Matches’ breathing stopped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With this terrifying image in his head, he stumbled to his feet, uncaring of the pain as his shin pushed something over and he lost his balance. He would have ended up back on the floor if it weren’t for the women rushing to his aid, stabilizing him enough to stay upright. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tried to ease out of her grip, but his uncoordinated movements only upset his balance once more and didn’t get him any closer to the door and therefore Matches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, calm down. You will be no good in this state. Just tell me where he is. Where?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Clark wanted nothing more than to scream at her. She didn’t understand. This was not some stanger out there, it was Matches, and he had to get to him and help him. But he couldn’t even manage to stand on his own, much less get to Matches in time.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Door, to the left, the next left, second right then right left."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His attempt to make his way over to meet whatever help she would send was foiled by her suddenly pushing him down onto a chair. Without Clark realizing it, she had slowly been guiding him to a place where he could sit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay. I will call the police, and you would only get in the way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was harsh, but it was the truth, no matter how much it pained Clark. If it wasn’t for his weakness, he could have been at Matches’ side. Matches wouldn’t even be in this situation. And now Clark was unable to do anything to undo his mistake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark nodded numbly, but she was already gone to get a phone and call the police. Without her holding his attention, he start sinking into dark thoughts filled with blood and death. Suddenly, a wet cloth was pressed into his hands, and he looked up to see that the young girl had gotten closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Let's clean off the blood, okay? You will feel better, I promise."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just shrugged and let her help him clean up, feeling too numb to hold the cloth properly. It was shocking for such a young girl to be so calm while doing it. No kid her age should be this used to the sigh of blood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you hurt?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just shook his head as the woman came back to his side, putting a phone back into her pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay then. Let's get you over to the chair over there and wait for the police to arrive."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let himself be guided over and just sat there, blankly looking forward, drinking the tea when the mug was pressed into his hands but otherwise not really reacting to his surroundings. He lost time just having this uncertainty of not knowing what had happened to Matches, if he was even still alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, there was a knock at the door, and two officers came in, one of them being Detective Hartley, who promptly recognized him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mr. Kent?” The surprise evident in his voice. “I assume the person who was attacked was Mister Malone? You were looking for him, after all."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is he...?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We were able to catch the shooter and two of his friends who arrived on the scene shortly after us. But your friend was already gone. We found a trail of blood leading away the scene before suddenly stopping. We are searching the area, and Red Robin checked in with us, but I wouldn't hope."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which meant they had taken him before the police arrived, when he was still alive. There was no reason to take a dead man. But that only meant they needed him for something, possibly information. Clark thought of Matches bleeding and in pain being, dragged away by some thugs only to be tortured and then killed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His stomach lurched, and he threw up all over the floor and Detective Hartley's shoes.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Clark Kent's doubt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clark pushed the apple pie away after a few bites, unable to stand the taste of it. He could feel the worried gaze of his mother from across the table as he once more refused to eat the food she had made him. He knew that she was worried and that he had to eat something, but it just didn't taste right. The last time he had tried to force-feed himself, he hadn't been able to keep it down; he met his mother’s eyes with a sad smile on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will put it away for you. Maybe you want it later."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thanks, Mom." He didn't have the heart to tell her that he would also have no appetite later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mandy from next door invited us over—her daughter is around your age. You remember her? Gabby? I think she was in the year above you, as far as I know. It would be nice to get out sometime."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark winced. His mother had good intentions, trying to keep him busy and distracted but he couldn't stand the thought of being around someone else besides his mother right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don’t think I am good company right now. But you should go, Mom. Have some fun."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But, Clark, I can't just leave you alone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's okay, I will be fine. Go out and don’t worry about me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you sure?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Absolutely."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gently took his head in her hands and kissed his forehead before heading out, making her way over to the Millers’ house in the truck. Clark watched her leave with a smile on his face until the dust had settled and loneliness crept up on him. Then, his shoulders slumped, and his faked smile faded into nothingness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked away the tears that already threatened to spill again. Making his way over to the barn, which was quite dim even in the middle of the day, Clark climbed up the ladder, making a nest in the hay bale, and buried himself in there, under the blanket he had carried with him the last time he’d gone up there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surrounded by the warmth and feeling safe, he let the tears fall. He curled into himself, sobbing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was his fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it weren't for him, Matches would still be alive—but Clark had to go and ruin it. If only he had done things differently, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Matches would still be alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Mr. White had just fired him without sending him to Gotham.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he had written the stupid article without all the snooping around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he had only been good enough to get inside the club without help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he had asked someone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he hadn't gotten back to Gotham over and over again and attracted attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he only had refused Matches offer to tag along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If one of the Bats had showed up to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If, if, if.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only he could turn back time and do everything differently—he would give his own life if that meant undoing the grave mistake he had made. He didn't deserve the sacrifice Matches had made for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man shouldn't have done it in the first place. Helping Clark was one thing, but giving his life away was not something somebody did for someone they barely knew. Although, their few days together felt like a lot longer than they actually had been. Clark hadn't been compelled to hide anything. He had known that he should, but he had not managed to. He had always told the truth, and Matches had accepted everything without using it for his own gain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Matches had never opened up in return, keeping his own secrets close to his heart, not giving Clark anything. But he had never minded that, was just happy with being allowed to stay close. It wasn't much, but he cherished every little memory he had with the mysterious man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Memories he feared would soon blur or completely fade in time. Now he wished he had taken the watch to have at least a single memento to keep the man close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was rather stupid, how deeply he had fallen for the man. He usually didn't wear his heart so openly for the taking—not even for Lois. Clark had been fascinated by her from the very first moment they met, captivated by her her strength and willpower, but it had been a process to open up to her so completely, to be so dependent on her that he couldn’t imagine a life without her. This still held true, even if they had mistaken the love they felt for each other for something more than familial. No classic romance, but love nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Matches, he’d felt all the same things he’d felt in the beginning with Lois—the pull, fascination, and excitement—but ten times stronger. He didn't want it to be true because he knew how hopeless it was and just how much pain it would bring him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he had fallen in love with Matches Malone. A love he himself had killed by forcing the other to make the ultimate sacrifice. The copper tang of blood and Matches’ rough, though surprisingly pleasant, smell haunted his dreams. Just as the weak </span>
  <em>
    <span>I will</span>
  </em>
  <span> that would never leave his mind again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just laid there, blinking at a dark spot on the wood of the barn wall while time lost its meaning as the dim light around him turned completely black until he couldn’t make out the wall anymore. Not that it really mattered; he had spent his younger years running around the farm and knew every nook and cranny. He didn’t need light to get back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could see the first stars coming up when he walked over to the house. A short glance at the empty driveway told him that his mother was still away. She deserved to get some space from him and enjoy herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not yet ready to go back into the lonely and dark house, he decided to stay outside and savour the cold night air and small breeze to clear his head. He would have been content enough to sit down on the single stair leading up to the porch, but his mother had recently repainted the seating group and added some décor, and he would feel bad if he didn’t use it. The chairs might be old, but with the new paint job and the good condition they had been in to begin with, you could have been fooled in believing they were new.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small table next to him was covered by a tablecloth he was sure his mother must have made herself. On it was a beautiful flower vase with some freshly picked wildflowers, which grew around the farm, a few candles, a matchbox and a book. Maybe some more light besides what the silver moon offered would help him calm down. He reached over to the box of matches placed next to the candle and his breath froze in his lungs. He recognized it. It was the same brand as the one Matches had used.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small box fell from his shaking fingers and landed on the table, the matches spilling out and springing away, some of them rolled over the edge and tumbled to the floor. The soft clicking as they hit the wooden deck was only interrupted by Clark’s harsh breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head snapped up from where he was looking at the matches as a harsh clash and shattering sound surrounded him. He looked around in confusion, searching for the source of the noise, and his eyes fell on the shards of the vase and the flowers laying in a wet spot on the floor next to the house wall. How had this happened? He looked down at his shaking fingers and then back at the vase. He had done that. He had destroyed something his mother had placed there with so much care. It was his fault. It was always his fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slumped down on his knees as tears ran down his face again. He made everything worse. Now his mother would be sad when she came back. And that only after she had gotten out and got some space from his mopping. She didn’t deserve to be bothered by him like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Clark what happened here? Are you hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hastily made her way over and sank to the ground in front of him, looking him over for some sort of injury, and when she didn’t find any she just drew him in close and held him to her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. So sorry. My fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark couldn’t stop his rambling. Apologizing repeatedly wouldn’t change a thing, not the vase, not declining her food, not her worrying, not what had happened to Matches and everything else he had done wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it is okay. It is just a vase. You are way more important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sniffled and held on, just wanting to soak up the comfort his mother provided. She had always managed to calm him down, no matter what happened or how bad the situation got. His mother was always there for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly, not wanting to push him if he wasn’t comfortable but wanting him to know that she was here, ready to listen to him if he wanted to get something off his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just whimpered and shook his head and then nodded. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to talk about it, not wanting to have to think about it, but there was this weight inside his chest making it hard to breathe, and he knew it would only get worse unless he talked to someone. And there was no one better than his mom. The one person who would never judge him and would always be on his side. He just didn’t know if he was ready yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take your time. I will always be there for you if you want to talk about it later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallowed hard and crooked. “Matches. He is gone. I-I…he is…was special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hon. I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's my fault, Mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Don't say something like that. I'm sure it isn't your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don't understand. He died. Protecting me. Because I was stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Clark. No don't say something like that. Even if he died protecting you, it was his choice. Something he wanted to do. It means he valued you more than his own life. You were just as special to him as he was to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hurt to hear her say it, but at the same time, it made his chest feel warm. He had never been sure if the thing between him and Matches meant anything or, better said, if their time together had meant as much to Matches as it did to him or if he had just imagined things. So to have his mother tell him it did made him feel fuzzy. But it also was a stark reminder of just how special what he had lost had been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cried in his mother’s arms while she slowly stroked over his back, mumbling comforting words until he felt exhausted from crying so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look drained. Go to bed. You can sleep in tomorrow. I will feed the chickens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Mom, you don't have to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Clark. Sleep in. It's no trouble at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slowly nodded, got in the most comfortable pyjamas he possessed, and went to bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When a loud ringing noise woke him, the sun was already high in the sky and shining bright. He reached over to his phone and answered without checking who was calling. There were only a select few who had his private number.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-llo?” he mumbled into the speaker while rubbing his eyes before diving deeper under the warm comfort of the blanket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clark, where are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shrill and energetic voice of his best friend came through the speaker, and what else did he expect? Ever since he had stood in front of her door after he came back from Gotham and told her everything, she had started to call him regularly to see how he was coping. And as the answer was never good, she had begun to make sure he got up in the morning—or morningish, as she wasn't that cruel after all, but she wouldn’t stand for him staying in bed all day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still with my ma, Lois.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She huffed in annoyance, but he could tell that this was just to overplay her worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Kent, I have watched this pity party far too long. I know it is sad, but hiding from the world on your little farm doesn't change anything. It is time to get out again, change your perspective, see something new.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lois, I don't think I'm ready yet for something like that. It is still too soon. A-After...after...him...I just can't.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't mean you have to throw yourself at the next hot piece of man we see. That will be mine anyway. I just mean that you shouldn’t hole up all alone, or with your mother. Just get out and get your mind off thing. Do it for me? If it doesn't help, I won't stop you from going back to your moping, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark thought about it, but there was no way she would just give up, not without him at least trying. And what was the worst that could happen? He could break down while being outside and then never go out again in shame. So he would be right back where he was right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, you win. Like always. And I guess you already have something in mind for where you want to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Martha Wayne charity gala.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lois,” he whined unashamedly, even if it made him sound like a four-year-old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know, you are not really a fan of these events, but I already have tickets and a story I need to do, and it is so different from what we usually do that it will be a good distraction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clark thought about it. He really didn't want to go, but she was kind of right. It was different. And after all the things she had done for him, not only in the past weeks after… well, after everything, but even before when he was still searching, hoping to get news of Matches. She had always listened and offered her advice. And if she didn't want to go to this stupid fund raiser alone, he would be a terrible brother if he didn't go with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I will wear a plaid shirt and you cannot stop me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could clearly hear her suffering sigh through the phone, but she gladly accepted his conditions.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Finding Bruce Wayne</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As they walked up to the venue the event was held in, stately Wayne Manor, he couldn't think about anything else besides how bad an idea this was and that he should have never let Lois talk him into coming here. The whole evening, day, whatever, had been a pure disaster, and they hadn't even gone inside yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After he had come back from his ma's, he hadn't felt much like staying alone in his apartment, which suddenly felt a lot colder and emptier than it had before. So, he had just grabbed some essentials, having a lot of stuff at her place anyway, and had hightailed it out of hi own home and over to Lois’, letting himself in with his key and getting settled on the sofa while Lois was at work. The evening had been pleasant enough, with him cooking for them both followed by  a silent movie, with them just enjoying each other’s company and cuddling before going to sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had all started going downhill this morning, when Lois had woken him up from a nightmare way earlier than they had to get up. Then the coffeemaker had suddenly gone up in smoke. Okay that was a bit much—it was more like a puff—but the point stood. The machine didn't work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On their way out to the nearest cafe to grab some caffeine and breakfast while they were there, they had run into Lois’ neighbour. An elderly lady who was usually quite friendly, but this morning just tutted and complained how inappropriate it was for Lois to have him over all night, which was stupid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was aware of the rumours about him and Lois, but she was his sister if not in blood then in heart and spirit, and the idea that something inappropriate would happen between them was disgusting. And second of all, even before this revelation, when they had still hoped that there could be something between them, they had spent most nights with him staying over just furiously working on a story until they both fell asleep on the sofa or desk, only to wake with cranked necks and ink on their faces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After they finally had managed to grab their fill of coffee in the rush of the early morning hours, they started their journey over to Gotham.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lois had insisted on driving a rented car, which he was utterly glad for. After all the times he had taken the train to search for...</span>
  <em>
    <span>him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he didn't think he would be able to get through a train ride. That didn't stop him from breaking into tears two times when they drove past a recognizable landmark and Lois had to pull over to calm him down again. But he refused to turn back even when she’d offered, determined to get through this and to not give up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had gotten ready in the hotel. One on the other side of town from the one he’d habitually stayed at and a lot nicer. Lois had been merciful on his clothing choices, and he was not only allowed a plaid shirt but also the soft suit jacket which once upon a time had belonged to his dad. At first, it had hurt, but over the years, he had begun to associate the jacket with comfort, which was why he needed it right now. Which led them here a short taxi ride later, in front of the impressive manor surrounded by high society who just wanted to gossip and look good. What would Matches think if he could see Clark no—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, he was not thinking about that. No no no. Just breathe. Stay calm. You can do this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let Lois lead him inside, earning a few disapproving or quizzical looks. He wasn't surprised—Lois looked absolutely breathtaking tonight. Normally, he would at least try not to look too far out of her league, but he just couldn't be bothered tonight, and with his choice of clothes, he really didn't look like her plus one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which was why he was kind of sorry for all the people who were shrinking away under Lois angry gaze as she all but dared them to say something, to give her a chance to rip into them for offending her brother like an angry lioness. It was kind of nice. Made him feel protected and safe, even surrounded by all the backstabbers and throat cutters who had only gotten so far in life through the misfortune of others. No one would get past Lois, and she wouldn't leave him unprotected for even one second tonight, job be damned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just trotted behind her, sipping on a glass of champagne that must be very expensive, but not daring to really drink much on his empty stomach. No matter how great Lois was, getting him to eat and keep it down was a battle even she was not able to win.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tuned out the conversation and just listened to the flow of chatter and voices around him, watching the warm lights and the flowing of the expensive fabrics around him, getting lost in his own little world but not in his head. Lois had been right. This place really made it hard to dwell in sad memories.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tug on his arm brought him back to himself, and he only caught the tail end of what Lois was saying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“-yne.” But he dutifully trotted along, trusting her to lead him safely through the crowd. It was nice to not have to think and to just trust—to give up all responsibility and just be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He quickly saw what had caught her attention. In the middle of a huge group stood a good-looking man—the centre of the attention without even demanding it, people falling over each other to speak to him. This had to be the notorious Bruce Wayne, owner of Wayne Enterprises and organizer of this event.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With all the people around him, it should have been impossible to even get close to the man, let alone speak with him, but Lois determinedly stepped forward. The crowd parted and he stumbled a few steps closer, not only holding the hand she had dragged him along with, but laying his other hand on her arm so as not to lose her. He was immensely glad that he had not picked up a second flute of champagne after he finished the first, sure it wouldn't have survived their march through the mass of people.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr Wayne. Lois Lane, Daily Planet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, Ms. Lane, always a pleasure. I remember you from our last interview. The new orphanage, I think? And you were also the one asking the pointless question about the Bat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. And this is my colleague and friend, Clark Kent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gestured to Clark, who was still clinging to her and who quickly let go of her arm to look less like an overgrown toddler. He could see how Mr. Wayne froze up at the mention of his name, and his eyes whipped over to him, taking him in and just staring until an uncomfortable silence ensured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had he done something to offend the man? Beside his fashion choice of course? But he had seen women with dresses that had looked a lot more hideous even though they probably wanted to stand out with them and considered them fashion. Or was Mr. Wayne interested in Lois—she was a beauty, after all—and thought of Clark as a rival?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don't think we have met before, Mr. Kent. How do you like Gotham so far?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't really want to get involved and would rather have Lois do all the talking. Thinking was hard and required effort, but he was raised better than to be rude, and he didn't want to destroy Lois' chances of getting an exclusive with the billionaire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is fine. This is much nicer than the parts of the city I have visited before. I did the witness reports for a story on the Batman some time ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other man just nodded, which could mean anything, but relaxed at least a bit and finally extended his hand for him to shake. Clark gladly took it, hoping that, with the greeting out of the way, he could go back to just existing in Lois’ space, soaking up her comfort, and wouldn't have to contribute to the conversation anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hand grabbing his was a lot bigger and rougher than he had expected. Shouldn't rich people have butter soft skin from never lifting a finger to do any labour? But there were calluses on the palm, and the hand was a lot stronger than he had anticipated. Before he could let go, the sleeve of Mr Wayne's shirt rode up revealing a wristwatch, which in itself was nothing unusual, many men wore watches with suits, but somehow it caught Clark's attention and he let his hand linger taking a longer look at the watch. He recognized it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was THE watch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But how? How was this possible? WHAT WAS GOING ON?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The handshake was going on for far longer than appropriate, but he couldn't get himself to let go, and when Mr. Wayne himself tried to take back his hand, Clark's cramped up, holding it in a death grip and not letting go, but turning it around so he could get a better look at the watch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seemed impossible. Absolutely ridiculous. He had no idea how the watch could have come into Mr. Wayne's possession. After all it should still be with... And even if it wasn't with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore, there was no way it would have found his way into the possession of a man like Wayne, let alone to have him wear it on an occasion like this. The watch was not shabby, but it had seen better times, and it didn't fit with the rest of the man’s expensive outfit. There were at least two digits missing from its price tag.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it had never been about the price with Matches, had it? There had been more to the watch for him. After all, he had had it close on his person and had tried to give it to Clark when he wasn't sure he would survive or what would happen to him. It was way more precious to him than money. So, for Bruce Wayne to wear it, that would mean—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark's eyes snapped up scanning the other's face intensely; he had only paid the slightest attention to it before. At first glance, the  two men were totally different, but the longer he stared, his eyes flickering from the billionaire’s face, over his body, and to the watch next to their connected hands, the more he saw. It was not only the height and body type, the muscles still visible under the suit. It was the lines in the face, the expressive eyebrows, the small frown on the forehead, and the eyes. Those eyes which had caught Clark’s interest all those months ago in a dark alley.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was sure that this was Matches. He didn't know how the man had survived and why a man like Bruce Wayne pretended to be a common criminal—heck, he had no idea why a man like Wayne had even bothered with Clark, but he was sure. No one would see it if they hadn't been as obsessed with Matches as Clark had been, but now he couldn't unsee it anymore. The picture of Matches clearly overlapping the image of Bruce Wayne.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“T-That watch—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he could say more the other man wrenched his hand out of Clark's grip and mumbled, “bathroom,” then stormed off, leaving a group of confused partygoers behind. Lois was instantly in his space, not furious about him scaring off her big story, but worried and fussing. She took his shoulder and quickly guided him away from the people, stroking his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Clark, are you okay? What was this about? You just froze up. Did he do something? Do I have to kick his ass? Because believe me, I will kick Bruce Wayne's ass if I have to. No one is allowed to upset you like that, handsome or not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the end of her speech, she was fuming and staring at the door where Mr. Wayne was just leaving the room and seeing him leaving like this, his back turned to Clark, broke something in him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“M-ma...Matches.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Clark? What is with Matches? Talk to me, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just shook his head, unable to put everything into words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Matches,” he whispered softly as he gestured in the direction of the door. Lois watching his flailing with a concerned look in her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, okay. Bruce has something to do with Matches. Clearly important. Do you want me to come with you? Have your back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought about it, wishing nothing more than to have Lois come with him and hold his hand. But he was sure he wouldn’t get Matches to talk to him if they weren’t alone. He just shook his head. She just smiled at him and softly stroked the skin of his wrist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just don’t let him hurt you, okay? You have already been through enough. I-I can't see you broken again, please. Promise me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Clark couldn't. He wished he could, but it was impossible. No matter what might happen, this would hurt. Maybe even leave him more broken than he had been before. But he couldn't stop. He had to know. No matter what this truth might entail. So he stormed after the other man without a plan or safety net, leaving the bright ballroom behind and following the man into the dimly lit shadows. Like he had done so often before. Although this time, he didn't know if he would be caught if he should fall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark was so lost. After the weeks he had thought he had lost Matches, now he had been reunited with the man. He had dreamed about what it would be like to find the man alive. He had always imagined tears and happiness and hugs. But now he was just lost, unsure of what to do. Although the tears were close. But he couldn't let them fall. He was too angry. Matches was alive all this time, and he hadn’t let him know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had mourned the man and put his life on hold in his grief. And all this time, Matches had been here since the shooting, in his fancy home drinking champagne and living his life. He knew Clark's name. His real name, because Clark was not a lying liar. He could have called, written a card. Heck, anything. Anything to let Clark know he was still alive. But he hadn't. He had chosen not to. Because he was rich and powerful, and Clark was just Clark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And wasn't that the bitterest thing. A man like Wayne, who already had so much, had seen a man like Clark and had taken his heart, only to get rid of it as soon as his time playing criminal was over. He had just toyed with Clark. Saw him helplessly kicking water and pulled him up, showed him warmth and gave him hope, only to push him back under. And that made Clark's blood boil. He could live with many things, but having the memories of the man he loved trampled on like this was not one of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Wayne. MR. WAYNE. We need to talk.” When he didn't get an answer, and the other man just kept on walking forward, Clark jogged to catch up with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Matches. I know it is you. Stop pretending. HEY. LISTEN TO ME, DAMN IT! MATCHES.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't care that he was screaming in a dark empty corridor like a lunatic and that it was only the massive wooden door that stopped people from hearing him and checking up on them. He wanted answers, and he wanted them weeks ago when he’d first sat in the police station and had to explain to the officers what had happened after being told the love of his life had vanished in a trail of blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He roughly caught Matches’ shoulder, pulling the man around to face him, genuinely surprised when the man let him. He knew what Matches was capable of. If the man didn't want to, Clark would already be on the floor, and hope bloomed into his chest. Maybe they could talk, figure it out. But the man still refused to make eye contact, stubbornly staring at a spot past Clark’s shoulder, ignoring his existence. It made Clark want to scream in frustration, and he pushed Matches, Wayne, Bruce or whatever he was called against the wall. Hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thin scream that erupted from the man’s lips shocked Clark, and he stumbled back, ripping away his hands as if burned. He had been angry, but he hadn't wanted to cause the other man so much pain. He didn't even think he would be able to use enough force to even hurt the other man. He was unsure of what to do and what was wrong, just hovering close not knowing how to help or if he was even allowed to touch the man anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the man in front of him made no effort to move away from him, just leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and his face distorted in discomfort. Clark could see his teeth biting on his lips to hold back another scream, but it didn't quite stop the pitiful moan from getting out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever caused Matches this pain was clearly not going away on its own, and Clark just hovered, getting tense as he could hear the door of the ballroom open, unnoticed by Matches. He was sure that whatever was going on, Matches wasn't keen on somebody finding out about it. He quickly laid his arm around Matches’ shoulder and the other one on the man’s elbow to carefully guide Matches away without making the other man’s pain worse. He didn't know the layout of the building, so he just went for the first door he saw and sighed in relief when the door handle easily moved under the slightest of pressure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They found themselves in some sort of sitting room with a comfortable area of sofas, a coffee table, and a big desk in the back of the room. For now, Clark maneuvered the other man to one of the plush sofas and helped him sit down before kneeling in front of him, worried. Now that he was a bit calmer and more collected, he easily noticed the hand pressed to Matches’ side. He slowly pulled it away and then opened the buttons to Matches’ suit jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. He didn’t see any blood coming through the shirt, which he took as a good sign, but he could easily feel the lines of bandages through the fabric when he carefully brushed Matches’ side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm sorry.” He didn't know what he was apologising for—there was just so much. Pushing him against a wall, being responsible for the injury in the first place, dragging Matches down with him since their first meeting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How bad is it?” He asked softly, unsure of himself now. Right here, under his hands, was the proof of what Matches had done for him, what he was ready to sacrifice for Clark's safety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing bad, just a strained muscle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guts on him. Even now, he still refused to look Clark in the eye and pretended they didn't know each other. Clark could feel his temper flaring up again, but before he could act on it and cause even more pain, he balled his hands into fists and took a few deep breaths until he didn't feel like punching Matches in his perfect face anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can literally feel the bandages through your shirt, Matches. And what a coincidence, they’re in the same place you were shot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Kent. You must have me confused with somebody else. My name is Bruce Wayne and not Matches. I don't even know anyone with that name. And I would surely know if I had been shot. This is simply a sports injury. My doctor reassured me that keeping it stabilised with bandages would lessen the strain. Now if you would excuse me. I have a party to get back to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matches or Bruce made a move to get up, but Clark just pressed him back in the seat, an angry frown on his face, but he could feel helpless tears building up. He knew he had to be rational and calm, but he just couldn't. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of this was too much. The whole evening was a mess. First, he thought the man he had lost was still alive and had just ignored him, only to find out that now he was pretending nothing happened at all. He knew he should accept Matches’ decision. If the man didn’t want to have any connection with Clark anymore, then that was his choice. But Clark just wasn’t ready to accept it yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop playing with me. Or was this all this ever was to you?” He wildly gestured between them, nearly smacking Bruce in the shoulder in his haste to describe whatever had been between them. “Some fooling around with the stupid reporter? You must have had a good laugh. Stupid Clark Kent falling all over himself for you. Was it fun? Did I entertain you? You must have had a great time telling all your friends while I cried myself to sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite his efforts, he couldn't stop the tears from falling freely now. He couldn't believe how stupid he had been, how foolish. But that was what love was, foolish. And there had been love involved with Bruce, at least on Clark's part. But apparently it had been one-sided, and the perfect billionaire playboy didn't want to have Clark in his life. Which was fine. Totally fine. Clark would cope with it. He had to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stood up straight, set his clothes to rights and wiped away the tears with his sleeve. He tried to set his face into a blank mask, but he just wasn't as good of an actor as Bruce was, and he was sure the hurt was still visible. But it had to do for now. At least till he managed to get away from Bruce and somewhere safe, where he could cry on Lois’ shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We-” A cough stopped his words. Damn crying. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Well, Mr. Wayne. It seems I have been mistaken. Have a good night, and I will try not to bother you again like this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded at the man and made for a hasty exit, trying to keep at least some of his dignity when a hand on wrist stopped him. His first impulse was to rip his hand out of the grip, because how dare the man try to touch him like this after everything that had just happened, and so he did just that. But he still couldn't bring himself to keep on storming out of the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Bruce didn't start speaking, he couldn't keep on standing there like an idiot, keeping his back to the other man. He slowly turned to the side to get a small glimpse of the man, but still not completely turning in case he had to flee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he saw shocked him to the bones. Bruce just sat on the sofa looking lost and sad. The hand he had grabbed Clark with was just hanging in front of him as if he couldn't be bothered to move after Clark dropped it, his shoulders were dropped, and his head hung low. All in all, the man was slumped into himself and looked like a sad excuse of the fierce man Clark had known and run through Gotham’s streets with, or even than the strong businessman that pretended to be above everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just looked so broken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm sorry.” The words were so quiet he first thought he had imagined them or mistaken a breath for actual words. He only was sure the other man really spoke when he continued to repeat the words over and over again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could clearly see the trembling in Bruce's hands. And even without seeing his face, the drops landing on the floor between the man’s knees was a strong indicator that the man was crying silently. No sobs. Just quiet tears as if the man didn't want someone to find out that he was suffering. As if he couldn't allow anyone to see his weakness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It broke Clark’s heart. He desperately wanted to be angry, furious—wanted to scream for the pain and grief Bruce caused when he could have eased the pain with a simple message, and for being played with from the start. Saving his life didn't really make up for the grief he had to live through in the past weeks. Not when he had wished he had been the one to die.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he couldn’t do it. When he looked inside, he just couldn't find the anger that had propelled him to push Bruce against a wall. Not with Bruce looking like this—like he had just lost everything, like it had been taken from him, and all Clark had to do was push him and he would fall and never get back up again. And wasn't that unfair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because Clark didn’t want to push. All he could see in front of him in this moment was neither Matches nor Bruce Wayne, just a broken man he cared about deeply. His friend, his protector, the man he had thought lost and that was still alive and looking so tired and exhausted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sank back down on the soft carpet in front of Bruce, wanting to see his face, but the man still stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. So Clark took his trembling fingers in his and squeezed softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, it's okay. I'm sorry, you know. I shouldn't have overreacted like this without letting you explain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slowly reached out, giving Bruce enough time to turn away if he really didn't want to face him, but when the other man stayed put, he caressed his cheek softly before turning his head gently to look in the eyes which, even red from crying, were still so beautiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't really know what to think anymore, but it was obvious that Bruce wasn't as indifferent about Clark as he had made himself out to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will not say that it is fine, or that it didn't hurt, because it did. But I'm still here and willing to listen. Because I know you. Or at least, I knew Matches. A man, a good man, who always had a way out and everything he did had a purpose. So tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can't.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was not what Clark had wanted to hear, but after everything, he hadn't expected things to be that easy and to just get an explanation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Bruce asked him with a bit of confusion, looking at Clark as if he couldn't believe he was still here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why can't you? Not that you don’t want to, but that you can’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would put you in danger.” Leave it to Matches to be a self-sacrificing idiot again and to hold Clark's wellbeing above his own. That it was not a bullet but loneliness this time didn't change that. The only thing he didn’t factor in was that this time, there was no way to sheild Clark. Whatever pain he might experience, Clark would feel it too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We met while I snooped around the Gotham underworld. I did an article trying to reveal Batman’s identity, for God’s sake. I can get myself in danger all by myself.” And I can drag you down while I'm at it, he didn't say. He hadn't forgotten that it had been his fault that Bruce had been shot in the alley.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be different. Deadlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Clark thought about it turning it over and over in his head. He could easily have said he could protect himself and that he was a grown up, but this was Matches. The man knew him and had helped him often enough out of bad situations with ease. For him to say it was even more dangerous than the Gotham underground and nearly getting killed by a bullet meant it was really something else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I trust you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This statement made out of the blue clearly shocked Bruce, and he looked at Clark, searching in his eyes for answers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I trust you to keep me safe. Just like you did all the times before. Just like you did from the gun. I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life like that. But I'm grateful. I just wish it hadn't been at such a high cost.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At these words, his hands wandered back to Bruce's side and rested over the wound. It was still marvellous to see the shirt so clean and pure when the last time it had been soaked with blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don't need to thank me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you protect me if you tell me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Naturally.” It was kind of adorable, just how offended Bruce looked at the thought that his intentions were questioned like this. Like it was a given that he would protect Clark. But his voice was soft when he continued speaking. “But I don't know if I can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then that's fine to—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What. No. That's n—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bruce. Listen to me. I trust you. Since the moment you got me out of the gang hideout, I’ve trusted you. And I’d rather be a part of it and know what is coming than be out of the loop. And even if you don't tell me, I will probably manage to get involved in some embarrassing way anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took a deep breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t demand that you tell me because it is your decision and whatever you choose is fine. Tell me or not. Or tell me parts. Everything is fine. Even if you don't tell me, we can try to talk this out. I don't know what will happen, but I will try. You are worth it. Just don't let your worry about my safety hold you back, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce looked at him in awe as if he couldn't believe what Clark had said. That he was still here talking to him. And it made rage coil in Clark's stomach. Not at Bruce, but at everyone who made this man, this amazing man feel like someone staying by his side when times got hard was marvellous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Clark waited for Bruce to continue and gave him time. “I suspected foul play with the Morrigans’ situation, just like you did. With the authorities and general public being ignorant or uncaring, I figured I would search myself. I didn't have much of a starting point, and none of my sources found anything useful, so I went to have a look myself and then I met you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn't make the best first impression, didn't I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark chuckled remembering the moment, but then he mulled things over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But why? You didn't have any connection to them. Morrigan’s firm wasn't involved with Wayne Enterprises, as far as I know. You clearly don't need their money. And how did you even manage all of it? The acting, the calmness, parkour skills, and knowledge about Crime Alley and gangs, not to mention the willingness to jump into danger. It was as if you were a completely different person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a long silence, and Clark already accepted that this was all he would get, which was fine. This was way more than he had expected, and it would take time to come to terms with it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It's what I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Running around playing detective and getting criminals into jail?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that Bruce looked at him, bemused but still with some sadness in his face, and Clark wished he could make it better—wash the grief away, be a shoulder he could lean on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think, Clark. You are smart. You will figure it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And wasn't that high expectation from a man like Bruce. Whoever said that Bruce Wayne was just a dumb playboy who hired people to run his company for him was clearly lying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, so smart, good investigation skills, movements like a fighter or dancer, acting, involved in Gotham and its underworld. Getting in trouble trying to help people, and fighting the good fig—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time he got a real smile. He couldn't believe it. It just seemed so unreal. But it also explained all his questions. Like a piece he was missing slotted into place, and suddenly he saw the whole picture.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was not really an apology for what had happened, and Clark would still need some time to get through it and his grief, but it was an explanation, a show of utter trust. And that was all he needed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You figured it out.” Was that a hint of smugness in Bruce's voice?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can't believe it! I kissed </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> Batman himself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a disbelieving look on Bruce’s face, which morphed into a smile. “That is what you take away from this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I mean. It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batman</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bemused smile stayed on Bruce’s face before it slowly slipped, and the dark worry came back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It's not pretty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn't expect it to be. Doing the right thing is never as clean as movies make it out to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce just nodded, suddenly looking even more exhausted and haunted than before. Like this talk had taken out the last of his energy reserves. And it wasn't only physical exhaustion from being injured. It was a bone-deep weariness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence hung heavy between them before Clark got back on his feet and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce's forehead. He used the hand he was still holding to help Bruce to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I really should get you to your bed so you can lie down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have ulterior motives for getting me there, Mr. Kent?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chuckle was a weak front which didn't divert from Bruce's state.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Believe me, I just want to see you rested, and as nice as this office is, the sofa is still a bit short for you to lie down on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there was the look again. The complete disbelief and amazement Bruce gave Clark every time he showed that he cared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce guided him on where to go once they left the room, but he leaned heavily on Clark, no longer pretending he was fine like he must have been doing all evening. They went through dark halls and up narrow stairways which were probably some sort of shortcut which normally no outsiders would be allowed to see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was clear to Clark when they reached the master bedroom from the dark blackout curtains alone. Running around all night made you want to sleep in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He helped Bruce over to the bed, easing him down on the soft-looking sheets before sinking down before him and starting to unlace his shoes and ease his socks off before putting them to the side and out of the way in case Bruce should stumble out of the bed at night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can do that myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. But after aggravating your wound, I would feel better if you didn't bend forward so much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It's fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just humour me. Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Bruce just caved and nodded, letting Clark pull off his belt on the way up before starting to undo the buttons of Bruce's shirt. He eased it of the man’s broad shoulders, not wanting the man to lift his arms. At first, his attention was on the white bandages covering his side, and he traced his fingers over them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew he shouldn’t spring this on Bruce right now and just get the man to bed, but he just had to know. Ever since he had been pushed to the side and seen Matches fall in his stead, he had tried to wrap his head around why the man had done it. And just when he had thought he would never know, the man had reappeared in his life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce was quiet for some time, biting on his lips, opening his mouth to answer several times only to close it again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wish I could say it wasn’t anything special, and I would have done it for any civilian who happened to wander into Crime Alley. But I’m done lying to you, Clark. When I first saw you stumbling around, clearly out of place, it was me just keeping an eye on a civilian and making sure he got out safe. But you intrigued me. The way you reacted, dragged me along, so unafraid. And the trust you had in me, not blind faith, but seeing under the facade.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce took a deep breath, laying his hand over the one Clark had still resting on his side. Now that the dam was broken, it was like Bruce couldn’t stop talking, wanting to get it all out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I knew there couldn’t be anything between us. That you didn’t even know who I really was, and I couldn’t tell you, but that didn’t stop me from wanting. I had to stay away, or I would have just told you everything. And when I stumbled over you again, I just wanted to spend time with you. I told myself it would be the last time, that I would do the right thing and let you go. But I knew I was lying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clark was crying again, overwhelmed by everything Bruce had said. He had already known that Bruce hadn’t just played with him from the moment he’d revealed his biggest secret, but hearing it so plainly was different. It was no “I love you,” but so much more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce’s lips before leaning back and letting his eyes wander over Bruce’s body, his collarbone, his scars. He just wanted to get the man comfortable so he could rest, but he couldn't help himself. Bruce was gorgeous. He focused on the countless scars. Some so fine you could barely see them, others prominent and standing out against the toned flesh. He slowly reached out and brushed a finger over a deep scar where Bruce’s neck met his shoulder, and Clark could feel a shudder under his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not so attractive anymore, I know.” Bruce looked away from him, trying to hide again, and Clark wasn't having any of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They are beautiful. Just like you. God, how can you be so perfect?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against the scar he had just touched and felt good when Bruce relaxed under his touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He helped Bruce out of his pants, leaving him in his boxers—and hadn't he imagined doing this for the first time a lot differently?—before lifting the covers and helping the man get comfortable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he stood beside the bed, a bit unsure of what to do. On one hand, it was pretty invasive if he presumed to stay, and he should let Bruce get his rest; on the other hand, he didn't want to leave the man so soon after finding him, but sitting down on the chair next to the window and watching him sleep seemed a bit creepy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His moment of indecision was cut short when Bruce flipped a corner of the covers up and looked at him hopefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay? Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Clark couldn't say no to that. At first, he had thought about getting in just like he was, but then Bruce was just in his boxers and the suit would be rumpled, so he quickly got out of it and draped it over the back of the chair as he had with Bruce's clothes, leaving him in boxers and a thin undershirt. He crawled under the covers, looked at Bruce's sleepy face, and couldn't help smiling. He opened his arms, making space for the other to press close and slowly rubbed over his back until he felt the other’s breathing even out. He just stayed there, watching the man he loved and feeling the soft heartbeat under his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was still so much between them, and there would be a lot more talking in their future, but they would figure it out. He was sure of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time since the night he’d held Matches bleeding in his arms, he was able to sleep peacefully.</span>
</p>
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